Runaway Rose
by Bohemian Anne
Summary: An intensely psychological story about Rose's life after she flees her wedding to Cal.
1. The Runaway 1

Chapter One

Philadelphia

June 15, 1912

Rose stood at the back of the church, trembling. At the front of the church, the organist began the notes of the wedding march.

Slowly, clutching her bouquet in her sweat-slicked hands, Rose started up the aisle toward Cal. She strove to control the shaking in her hands.

Why was she doing this? Why was she marrying Cal? That night, in the water, she had promised Jack that she would go on, that she wouldn't give up. But that was exactly what she was doing.

She didn't want to marry Cal. She still didn't understand why, after Cal had found her on board the Carpathia, she had returned with him to first class. Her mother had been overjoyed to see her, but she had still insisted that Rose go through with the wedding. Rose hadn't wanted to, but the joy in her mother's eyes had made her feel guilty. She remembered her words to her mother on the Titanic—"Oh, Mother, shut up!" "Good-bye, Mother."

Where would her mother be without this marriage? She had few skills. She knew little of the outside world. Ruth Bukater probably would end up working as a seamstress in some sweatshop, or worse. Rose had no choice.

As she walked up the aisle, she saw Cal watching her. To everyone else, he seemed the perfect gentleman, a noble man waiting for his fiancée, even after she had betrayed him with another man. Rose knew differently, though.

From the first, she had sensed that something was not quite right about him. He had always acted like a perfect gentleman in public, and, at first, Rose had wondered if her distrust of him was simply nervousness brought on by having had little experience with men. Her mother had thought him the ideal man, and had strongly encouraged Rose to accept Cal's proposal of marriage. When Rose had balked, her mother had informed her of their financial situation, impressing upon Rose that if she did not accept Cal's proposal, they were both likely to wind up on the streets.

Rose had been frightened of the prospect of poverty, and had finally accepted Cal's proposal. Cal's behavior toward her had changed almost immediately. Feeling that he had her under his control, he began to treat her like a possession, caring little for what she thought, mostly concerned with how others viewed them. When Rose had displeased him, he had taken to beating her—but only where no one was likely to see. At least, no one who had the power to do anything about it. Trudy had looked shocked at the bruises when she had helped Rose to dress, but Rose, too ashamed to admit to what was happening, had blamed the bruises on a fall from her horse, and had thereafter dressed herself after Cal had beaten her.

That hadn't been the end of it, though. During their trip to Europe, Cal had booked adjoining rooms for himself and Rose in several hotels. Because it was his money that was paying for the trip, Cal felt that he was entitled to more from Rose than a few chaste kisses, and had forced himself upon her.

Rose had tried to tolerate it, had even tried to please him, but Cal had seemed to relish causing her pain. After he had beaten her with his belt several times, Rose learned to keep quiet and just do whatever he wanted, stifling her cries of pain. Cal had insisted that he was doing it because he loved her, but Rose knew better.

After Cal had visited her in her room the second night on Titanic, Rose had had enough. The following night, as the rest of first class had been at dinner, Rose had tried to jump off the ship. Deep down inside, though, she had been grateful when Jack Dawson had shown up and convinced her not to jump.

It was Jack that she had learned to love, and Jack who had shown her that what happened between a man and a woman could be a wonderful, beautiful thing. Rose was glad that she had pulled him into the back seat of the Renault; at least once in her life she would be able to experience lovemaking, rather than rape.

Rose's thoughts returned to the present as she approached Cal. In just a few moments, she would be joined to him forever.

Rose's steps slowed. She looked at Cal, feeling as if she was seeing everything from a great distance—Cal's cool smile, her mother's beaming face, the bridesmaids clad in their lavender gowns. The heavy veil on her head seemed to weigh her down, the weight of the diamonds and pearls decorating it digging into her head. The Heart of the Ocean was heavy around her neck, an expensive bauble decorating an expensive possession. In just a few moments, she would belong to Cal, to be used and abused as he saw fit.

Rose stopped, her hands shaking. Frozen in place, she stared at Cal. She heard her mother hiss at her to get moving, but her feet seemed to be glued to the floor.

Suddenly, something inside her snapped. She couldn't do it! She just couldn't do it!

Dropping her bouquet, Rose whirled around. Lifting her skirts, she ran back down the aisle and out of the church. She could hear shocked voices echoing inside the building, could hear Cal shouting after her, but she didn't stop. Racing down the sidewalk, Rose ran around the corner, oblivious to the shocked stares of people on the street.

Her veil snagged on a bush. Stopping momentarily, Rose yanked the pins from her hair, letting the veil fall to the ground, then ran on. Her hair, freed from its perfect coiffure, whipped around her as she ran, but Rose paid it no heed. Heels clacking on the ground, she headed for home.


	2. The Runaway 2

Chapter Two

Rose banged frantically on the door, shouting for someone to let her in. One of the maids, a young Irish woman who had also survived the Titanic, let her in. Rose raced past her, heading for the stairs.

Rose ran up the stairs, leaving one of her high-heeled shoes on the landing. Running into her room, she grabbed a bag containing a few items that she had been planning to take on her honeymoon with Cal.

Dumping out the contents of the bag, she grabbed a few necessities—a change of clothes, a hairbrush, the money left from purchasing her trousseau, a box of candy that Cal had left for her that morning. Rose didn't like bringing anything that Cal had given her, but she only had about one hundred dollars, and she realized that she might need the food.

Stripping off her wedding dress, Rose grabbed the plainest day dress she owned and struggled into it. Yanking the rest of the pins from her hair, she stuffed them into her bag. Slipping her feet into her one pair of flat shoes, Rose hurried to the door.

Rose threw open her door, and came face to face with Ellen, the Irish maid. Startled, Rose tried to run around her, but Ellen stopped her, thrusting something into her hand. Rose almost dropped it before she realized what it was—neatly wrapped leftovers from the previous evening's meal, along with a sandwich. Ellen had guessed her intent, and was helping her along.

Voices sounded from the front door. Cal had sent his new valet to find her, and Ruth had accompanied him. Racing down the hall, Rose ran down the back staircase, slipping out the servant's entrance.

Rose ran through the garden, ducking behind the ancient trees. Reaching the back gate, she threw it open and ran into the alley.


	3. The Runaway 3

Chapter Three

Rose didn't stop moving until she reached the train station in the seamier part of Philadelphia. Hurrying into the station, she asked the clerk when the next train was leaving.

"Two minutes, miss," he told her, staring. Rose wondered what he found so fascinating, until she glanced down and realized that she was still wearing the Heart of the Ocean.

Clapping her hand over the gem, she asked, "Where is it going?"

"New York, miss," he replied.

"I'd like one third class ticket," she told him, pulling five dollars from her bag.

He handed her a ticket and her change. "Better hide that necklace, miss. Some of these folks might find it a nice target."

Rose nodded in acknowledgment, then ran for the train, unhooking the necklace as she ran. She dropped the necklace down inside her corset as she rushed outside. The train was starting to pull away. Rose raced after it, jumping aboard just as it was picking up speed.

Finding a seat, Rose sank into it, looking out the window. She tried to ignore the stares of the other people in the car, as they eyed her expensive silk dress and her red face. Rose sank back into the seat, relaxing as the train left the city and headed for New York.


	4. The Runaway 4

Chapter Four

New York

It was nearly five o'clock before the train reached New York. Rose mentally calculated the time. It had been one o'clock when she left, and it was at least two hours between trains to New York from Philadelphia. She had about two hours to make herself scarce before Cal or his valet could even get to New York.

Suddenly, Rose felt like laughing. She was free! She had promised Jack that she wouldn't give up, and she hadn't. It had taken her two months to get away, but she had done it. She wouldn't go back to Cal, no matter what happened.

Rose sobered. Her joyful mood vanished as quickly as it had begun. What would happen to her mother? She had been counting on Rose to marry Cal and solve their financial problems.

Rose tried to put the thought out of her mind. If she went back to her mother, she would wind up married to Cal. Another man would have given up on her after the way she had treated him, but not Cal. The more she resisted, the more he wanted her.

Rose vowed that she would never go back.


	5. The Runaway 5

Chapter Five

Rose got off the train in one of the most rundown areas of New York, realizing that Cal would be hard-pressed to find her there.

As she stepped down from the train, Rose realized how tired she was. It had been a long, emotionally trying day. Her frantic flight through the streets of Philadelphia had left her exhausted. She wanted a hot meal and a place to sleep, preferably for as little as possible.

Rose sat down on a bench to take stock of her situation. She had ninety-seven dollars left—and the Heart of the Ocean, she realized, as the gem dug into her flesh under her corset. Briefly, she considered selling it. It would provide enough money for her to live on for the rest of her life.

Rose shook her head. No, she couldn't sell it. Not only it would point Cal in her direction, but it was all that she had left to remember Jack by.

Tears threatened as she remembered the night that Jack had drawn her. That drawing was at the bottom of the sea, along with Jack. Rose blinked back tears, hoping that Jack had the drawing to remember her by.

At last, she rose from the bench and headed down the street. Locating a small restaurant, she paid seventy-five cents for a small dinner, then headed back into the streets.

Rose was growing more tired by the minute, and was considering finding a bench somewhere to lie down on, when she came upon a small, broken-down hotel.


	6. The Runaway 6

Chapter Six

Rose slipped into the building. The paint was peeling, and one of the windows was broken. Nevertheless, it was still in business.

Rose stepped up to front desk. It was scarred and discolored, with cigarette burns and liquor stains on the top.

The clerk was reading a newspaper. He didn't look up until Rose cleared her throat.

The clerk looked her over. He raised an eyebrow, surprised at her respectable looks. Most women who frequented this particular establishment were anything but respectable.

"How much for a room?"

The clerk grinned. This girl was definitely new to the neighborhood. "Ten cents an hour, sixty-five cents for the whole night."

Rose was momentarily taken aback. A hotel that rented by the hour? How convenient, she thought. A person could take a nap, and not have to pay for an entire night.

"I'd like to stay the night, please."

"That'll be sixty-five cents," the clerk told her. Rose handed him the money, then looked around.

"Aren't I supposed to register somewhere?"

The man laughed. "You're new to this, aren't you?"

Rose looked at him in confusion. He just shook his head. "You'll learn soon enough." He handed Rose a key. "Lock your door while you do business. It keeps you from being disturbed." He returned to his newspaper, leaving Rose thoroughly confused.

Rose went up the stairs, still trying to figure out what the clerk was talking about.

She got her first clue as to what the clerk was referring to as she opened the door to her room. A man who had just come up the stairs gave her a suggestive look. Rose gave him a dirty look. He smirked and asked her what her price was, informing her that she was much better looking than the girl he was supposed to be meeting. Rose was shocked and slammed the door in his face. The man roared with laughter as he walked away.

Rose leaned against the door, shaken. What kind of hotel was this?

Shortly after she lay down, there came a knock on the door. She opened the door a little way and peeked out. Another man stood outside her door. "Malvina?" he asked.

"Not here," Rose responded.

A door opened across the hall. "Here, Sammy," a coarse-looking woman called. Sammy turned, grinning, and followed her into the room. Rose lay back down, but before she could fall asleep, another knock sounded. Rose marched to the door. "Not here!" she shouted.

There was silence outside. Then a male voice responded, "How much?"

Rose couldn't believe it. She was sleeping in a house of assignation! No wonder they rented by the hour. "I'm busy!" she prevaricated.

The man grumbled as he walked away. Several more men knocked during the night, but Rose ignored them, trying to sleep between knocks. Finally, around three o'clock, the knocks ceased, and Rose managed to sleep until eight o'clock.


	7. The Runaway 7

Chapter Seven

Rose awoke to see the sun streaming through a dirty window. Rising, she stretched, working the kinks out of her muscles. Yawning, she rummaged through her bag, still tired, but eager to leave this place before any more men mistook her for a whore.

Quickly, Rose straightened her clothes and brushed her hair, running her fingers through it and checking for lice. The bed linens looked as though they hadn't been changed in quite some time.

Picking up her bag, Rose left the room and headed down the hall. No one was around except for a drunk passed out at the top of the stairs. Rose nearly tripped over him in the unlit hallway.

Rose was relieved when she stepped out into the street. The air was fresh, compared to the inside of the hotel. It was easier to ignore the odors of garbage and liquor in the morning sunlight. Rose walked several blocks before she stopped in a small neighborhood park. Sitting on a bench, she ate the leftovers Ellen had given to her the day before. The food was stale, but Rose ate it gratefully, wondering where her next meal was coming from. Would she wind up like the other women in that hotel?

Rose rejected the idea. She would never be a prostitute. She would rather...

Rather what? she asked herself. Go back to Cal? Life with Cal would be worse than the life of a whore. Better to be whore to many men than a wife to Cal.

Rose took a deep breath. She didn't want to be a prostitute. She would only be a prostitute if it was necessary for her to survive, she vowed.

That decided, she thought about her options. She had a good education, but little experience in any useful trades. She could sew a little, could cook a few simple dishes, and knew basically what was expected of a waitress or a maid or a tutor. She didn't think that being a ladies' maid or a tutor were really options, however. If she took a position as a maid or tutor with one of the upper class families of the city, Cal would undoubtedly find out before long. In addition, many of the families knew who she was. They might wonder what she was doing, looking for a job commonly reserved for the lower and middle classes.

She might be able to find a job as waitress, even without experience or references. Many jobs required references, but Rose hoped that she would be able to find one that didn't. She didn't know anyone who would give her references, and she hadn't the means to forge them.

Putting her sandwich back in her bag, Rose got to her feet. It was time to look for a job.


	8. The Runaway 8

Chapter Eight

Rose walked from place to place, looking for work. After the third restaurant owner turned her down, she was getting frustrated. Upon seeing the look on her face, the manager suggested that she try the theater district, where waitresses came and went so fast that there were almost always jobs available.

Rose thanked him, and headed across the city. She was somewhat worried that someone she knew would show up at one of the restaurants, but hoped that if she sought work in a lower class establishment, she could avoid old acquaintances.

As she headed down one of the side streets in the theater district, Rose noticed a 'Help Wanted' sign in the box office window of one of the small theaters.

Stopping, she looked at the sign in consideration, wondering what kind of help they were looking for. Shrugging, she decided to find out. If she didn't like it, she didn't have to take the job, and this was one establishment that was hiring.

Rose knocked at the back door of the theater. She could hear music and singing coming from inside.

No one answered. Rose tried again. Finally, after several knocks, she heard footsteps coming toward the door.

A short, heavy-set man with three days growth of beard yanked the door open. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded. "Can't you hear the rehearsal going on?"

This was not the reception Rose had expected. "I'm here about the job," she told him, hoping that this was not the man in charge of hiring.

He scowled. "Wait here," he told her, slamming the door in her face.

Rose felt like kicking something. She was still tired from the previous day, and no one seemed to want anything to do with her. Had Jack ever experienced this?

The door opened, and a tall man in a slightly rumpled suit beckoned to her. "I'm Norman Baker, owner of the theater. You want the job?"

"What kind of job is it?" Rose asked, hoping it wasn't anything that required references.

"I need someone to sell tickets in the box office." He realized that several of the actors who had been rehearsing were gathering around, listening curiously. He gestured to Rose. "Come with me."

Rose followed him backstage to a small, dimly lit office. Baker yanked the curtains open, letting in the light.

"Excuse the mess," he told her. "We're about to open, and I've been working the ticket office myself, as well as doing all the financial stuff and management." He sat back, putting his feet up on a pile of scripts. "Do you have any sales experience, Miss..."

Rose almost answered 'Miss DeWitt Bukater', but caught herself in time. All Cal would need to do to find her was mention her name. DeWitt Bukater was not a common name.

"Dawson," she answered. "Rose Dawson."

"All right, Miss Dawson, do you have any sales experience?"

I sold myself to save my mother, Rose thought, but she answered, "No, sir."

He looked dismayed, but went on. "How are you at math?"

"Excellent, sir. I earned top marks in school."

He raised an eyebrow at this, evidently unaccustomed to the notion of a female who was good at math.

"How are you at interacting with people?"

"I can get along with anyone, sir." Except Cal, she thought.

He steepled his fingers, thinking. "I would prefer someone with experience, but that sign has been in the window for two weeks and we've had no takers. I need someone to work the box office right away." He paused. "Can you present a cheerful face to anyone who comes?"

Since Rose had put on a cheerful face, whether she felt like it or not, for years, she felt she was an expert in this area.

"Certainly, sir."

"All right, Miss Dawson, I've give you a try. The job pays $1.15 a day prior to production, except for on the last three Saturdays before the show, when the cast does teasers on the street to attract ticket buyers. You will accompany them to sell tickets, and will be paid an extra one cent for each ticket sold. During production, you will be paid $1.50 a day, except for Saturdays, which are very busy. On those days you be paid $1.65. You work Monday through Friday, 9 AM to 5 PM, prior to the show opening, plus those three Saturdays. During production, you work Monday through Saturday, 3 PM to 10 PM. Sundays are off. I will pay you at the end of each week. If I catch you skimming money, you're fired. Is this clear, Miss Dawson?"

"It's clear, sir," she answered. "Could I have a piece of paper to write down the schedule? It's a little...complex."

Mr. Baker dug through a pile of papers, coming up with a schedule. "Take this. If there are any unforeseen changes, I'll let you know." He looked at her. "Any more questions, Miss Dawson?"

"What kind of theater is this?"

"We do a combination of comedy, musical theater, and vaudeville. We also do one serious production in the fall. We'll be starting rehearsals for that in mid-July, while other shows are running. Pre-production is mostly in early spring, while we do casting and rehearsals. We mostly have the same actors year after year but we bring about five or so new ones in each year, to replace the ones who leave. We have a different group of supers for most productions."

"Supers?"

"Extras, they're called in the motion pictures. They're basically background. They don't say anything, although in musical productions they're often called upon to sing. They basically fill out the stage."

Rose nodded. She had never heard of supers before, but she remembered the information for future reference. She might be able to break into acting that way.

"When do I start?"

"Today, if you can. The box office opens at three." He pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it. "It's one o'clock now. I suggest you take your belongings to wherever you're staying, and then be back here by a quarter to three, so I can explain what you need to do. Oh, and one more thing, Miss Dawson."

"Yes?"

"People who work here tend to be on a first name basis. I want you to call me Norman, instead of Sir."

Rose laughed. "All right, Norman. If you will call me Rose."

They shook hands.


	9. The Runaway 9

Chapter Nine

Rose left the theater feeling exhilarated. She had found a job! She wouldn't wind up on the streets, as her mother had predicted, or become a prostitute, as she had feared that morning.

Rose sat down on a bench, intending to eat the sandwich Ellen had given her, but stopped, realizing that there was something more important to do first.

She had to find a place to live.

She had seen several hotels and boarding houses as she had traveled to the theater district. There were also apartment buildings, but Rose doubted that she could afford an apartment, even temporarily. Remembering a street lined with boarding houses that she had passed earlier, she headed back, hoping she could remember where it was.

Luck was with her. The street was only three blocks from the theater, and Rose found it easily. Several of the buildings had 'Room to Let' signs on them.

Within a short time, Rose discovered a new problem—many of the boarding houses wouldn't take single women. After inquiring at two of them, Rose learned that single women were considered troublesome. Many boarding house owners felt that a young woman on her own must have something immoral about her, and thought that she might use her room for immoral purposes.

Rose was ready to try the apartments, despite their higher cost, when she saw one last house with a 'Room to Let' sign on it at the end of the street. Sighing, Rose decided to give it one last try.

Rose knocked on the front door of the house. A sixtyish woman with dyed hair and too much rouge answered the door. Rose was momentarily taken aback, wondering if she'd wandered into another house of assignation, but decided to ask about the room anyway. She didn't have to take it if she didn't want to.

"I saw your 'Room to Let' sign," Rose told the woman, gesturing at the window.

"We have two rooms available, one for a single person, one big enough for a family. Which are you looking for?"

"A single person size room will do," Rose told her, hoping that this time the owner would allow her take a room.

The woman looked her over. "Are you an actress?"

"No," Rose replied, wondering what that had to do with anything.

"I get a lot of actresses here, because I'm one of the few owners this close to the theaters who will rent to single women."

Rose's sigh was almost audible. Finally, someone who might give her a chance!

The woman grinned at Rose's expression. "I see you've already tried the other houses."

Rose just nodded.

"They think they're the keepers of morality, forcing young women to either stay home or get married. Truth be told," she whispered, leaning closer to Rose, "more than one young lady has lied about being alone so that she can get a place to live. A lot of them have a 'brother' or a 'father' or a 'husband' who plans on joining them soon, but somehow never shows up."

Rose grinned, thinking about the reaction that the highly "moral" owners must have had every time they found out.

"You're not a prostitute, are you?"

Rose looked at the woman in indignation. How many more people where going to think of her as a prostitute?

"No," she answered coolly, wondering if she really looked that bad.

The woman shrugged. "I didn't think so; they usually stay in another part of town."

Rose nodded in agreement; she had been there the previous night.

"Still, you can never be too careful, especially in a low rent area," the woman went on. "Actresses I'll take, but not prostitutes." She patted Rose's shoulder. "You don't really look like a prostitute, dear. A little out of place, and a little hard-eyed, but not a prostitute."

Hard-eyed? Rose thought. That was a new, but probably accurate, description. She had learned a lot about the darker side of life in the past few months.

"The rent is two dollars a week," the woman told her. "I know that most places rent by the month, but I get so many actors here that it's easier to rent by the week. They move on so quickly." She looked at Rose. "What kind of job do you have?"

"I'm a ticket seller for the Baker Theater on River Street."

"They finally found someone? Took them long enough. If you want the room, I'll need you to pay each week in advance. You can also pay a month in advance, if you want."

Rose nodded. "Can I see the room before I decide to stay here?"

"Sure, sure," the woman agreed. "I'm Mrs. Frances Cartwright, by the way. Just call me Frances."

She hustled up the stairs, then led the way to a room at the end of the hall. She opened the door, letting Rose look inside.

The interior was slightly dusty, but otherwise tidy. The room was sparsely furnished, with a bed in one corner, a rack for hanging clothes in another, and a chest of drawers in a third. The fourth corner contained the door.

"Bathroom's down the hall," Frances told her, pointing to a blue-painted door. "There is indoor plumbing, but when it backs up there's also an outhouse out back." She pointed through the window of the room, where a small building was clearly visible. "It doesn't get used too often, so the smell's not that bad."

Rose looked around the room. It was smaller than her bedroom in Philadelphia, and far plainer. But it felt much homier than her old room ever had.

"I'll take it," she told Frances, reaching into her bag. "I think I would find it most convenient to simply pay a week at a time." She handed the woman two dollars.

"You planning on leaving soon?" Frances asked her, accepting the money.

"N-no," Rose stammered, although she did realize that if Cal found her, she would need to leave in a hurry. "I just find it easier to pay small amounts, is all."

Frances didn't quite believe her, but nodded anyway. "All right, Miss...what's your name?"

"Rose. Rose Dawson."

"All right, Miss Dawson. I have just a few rules here, but I expect them to be obeyed. No men in your room unless they're related to you or you're married to them. If you want to entertain a young man, you can sit in the parlor, or on the front porch, or out back. If you want privacy, you'll have to go elsewhere. You clean your own room, and if you have trouble with vermin, you let everyone else know so that they can keep a close eye out for unwanted critters. You provide your own food. I can't buy food for people on two dollars a week. There is an icebox in the kitchen, and you can cook there, but be sure to label your food clearly. Starving actors will eat almost anything, and I won't hold them accountable if you don't mark your food as yours. Don't leave food around until it spoils, and if it does, remove it immediately. No fighting. No smoking inside. No loud voices or singing after nine o'clock PM or before seven o'clock AM. You wouldn't believe how many actors practice at all hours." Frances paused, thinking. "That's about it." She dug into the pocket of her apron. "Here is your key. Be sure to keep your door locked when you're away or when you're sleeping. I try to maintain order, but you just never know what might happen."

Rose nodded in agreement. Who would have thought, a year ago, that she would be renting a small room in a boarding house and selling theater tickets? Things did indeed happen that no one planned on.

"There are two other people here who work for the Baker Theater. Alice Cane has been starring in the vaudeville productions for the past three years. She's twenty-five years old and has the second room on the right near the stairs. Don't tell her I told you her real age. She bills herself as being eighteen, but she's been eighteen for a very long time. The other person is Robert Calvert. He is also in the vaudeville shows, though not quite at the top. I'm sure he will be some day. I've had to tell him more than once not to practice when people are sleeping. Even the best voice is irritating at one o'clock in the morning."

Rose laughed. "Thank you for warning me." She carried her bag into the room and set it down on the bed.

Frances looked at her curiously. "Don't you have any more luggage?" she asked.

Rose remembered her trip on Titanic, where she had had five trunks just for her clothes. "No," she replied. "I'm just getting started here." Something occurred to her suddenly. "What time is it?"

Frances dug out a pocket watch from her dress. "Two thirty, Miss Dawson."

Rose realized that she had only fifteen minutes to get back to the theater. She reached into her bag and grabbed her sandwich, intending to eat it as she walked.

"I have to go now. I'm supposed to be back at the theater at a quarter to three so Mr. Baker can show me what to do." She snapped her bag shut, and hurried to the door. Frances followed her, slamming the door behind her.

Rose looked at her in surprise. Had she done something to upset the woman?

Frances laughed at the look on Rose's face. "You're not in trouble, dear. This door is little bit warped, and it often doesn't close completely unless you slam it."

Rose smiled, a bit nervously, wondering what other surprises awaited her.


	10. The Runaway 10

Chapter Ten

Rose rushed through the streets, heading back toward the theater. She ate her sandwich as she traveled, stuffing huge bites into her mouth. _If my mother could see me now_, she thought, _she would be appalled_.

Rose was brushing crumbs off her dress when she reached the theater. Not certain of where she was supposed to enter, she headed for the back door again. Yanking on it, she discovered it was open, and slipped inside.

She was greeted by utter chaos. Actors and stagehands were running around, yelling, singing, reciting lines, and practicing dance steps. As Rose looked around for someone who might know where she was supposed to go, a woman in a bright yellow dress and an enormous feathered hat rushed through a dressing room door, shouting for someone named Charlie. She collided with Rose, and both landed in a heap.

The woman's hat flew off, and her red hair spilled across her face. The hat landed a few feet away, minus three of the feathers.

"Excuse me. Sorry. Where's my hat?" The woman jumped to her feet, nearly stepping on her skirt, and grabbed the hat.

Rose got to her feet, holding a now broken feather. "Uh, Ma'am? Here's one of your feathers."

The owner of the feather grabbed it, looked at in disgust, and grumbled, "If he'd sewn it on properly in the first place, this wouldn't have happened. Have you seen that damned Charlie?"

Rose had no idea who Charlie was, and her face showed her confusion.

The woman had picked up another feather. "You must be new here. What are you supposed to be doing?"

"Working the ticket office. Where is it?"

"Down that hall and around the corner. Norman's waiting for you. You're Rose, right?"

"Right."

"Norman already told everyone that he'd finally found a ticket seller. He was practically clicking his heels." A short man with three costumes flung over his arm approached them. "That's Charlie. He's the costume designer and tailor. By the way, I'm Alice Cane, the star of the show."

"Don't you wish, Alice."

"Shut up, Charlie. This is Rose, the new ticket seller."

"Wonderful. When she takes your place, send her my way. What did you want?"

Rose interrupted them. "Excuse me, I've got be going. What time is it?"

"Two forty-six," Alice told her, holding the offending hat and feathers out to Charlie.

She was late. Rose mumbled good-bye, then rushed down the hall Alice had indicated. She could hear Alice and Charlie arguing about the hat all the way down the hall.

Theater people certainly were a lively group, she reflected, as she hurried toward the ticket office. She might well fit in here.

Norman was tapping his foot when she found the office and rushed inside. "You're late, Rose. You don't have much time to learn this, and I'm opening the show this afternoon and tonight, so I can't help you."

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know quite where to go, so I wound up backstage."

"Call me Norman, Rose. Sir is something you call a knight, and I haven't played one of those in years."

"Yes, Norman."

"Relax, young lady. I'm not going to bite, and neither will the actors, the stagehands, or the audience. They might throw rotten tomatoes, but they won't bite."

Rose laughed at the idea. Norman grinned and pointed to a list of ticket prices on the wall.

"Tickets are twenty-five cents for the matinees, thirty-five cents for the early evening shows, and fifty cents for the 9:30 shows. No children are allowed, unless they are at least thirteen years old, and then only to the matinees. The first show is at four o'clock, and we sell tickets for it until 4:30. Second show is at seven, tickets on sale until 7:30. Third show is at 9:30, tickets sell until ten. You may leave after that. If you don't feel comfortable on the streets at night, you can stay until 11:30, when the show ends. Most of the actors live around here, and they'll be walking home. Where do you live?"

"The boarding house at 3660 Fast Street."

Norman nodded. "Two of the performers, Alice Cane and Robert Calvert, also live there. Alice has red hair, looks a lot like you. You should be able to find her."

Rose nodded. "Yes. We collided backstage."

Norman raised an eyebrow, then shook his head. "I don't want to know."

Rose told him anyway. "She was yelling for Charlie..."

"Ah, yes, the costumer. He and Alice have been at each other's throats for the past two months. Just ignore them. Everyone's in a fit right now. Opening night does that." He checked his pocket watch. "It's time to open, Rose. Do you think you can handle this?"

"I can handle it." She drew back the curtain covering the window. A boy of about fifteen stood there, his hands in his pockets. When he saw Rose, he grinned and looked her over.

Norman gave him a severe look. "First in line again, Gabe?"

"Yeah." His pimply face split in a wide grin. "Is she gonna be onstage?" he asked, indicating Rose.

"Not right now, kid."

"She should be. She looks just like Alice, only prettier."

"I'll tell Alice you said that, Gabe."

"No, no, no, don't tell her that. She'll probably toss me in the outhouse."

Rose couldn't help it. She laughed. Gabe looked offended.

"What's so funny?"

"You. How do you know Alice?"

"I'm her brother. I live in the same boarding house as her."

"You'd better watch out, then. I live there, too."

"Oh, no," he moaned in mock fear. "Two Alices."

"Are you gonna buy a ticket or not?" Norman interrupted.

"I'm buying, I'm buying." He dug two dimes and a nickel out of his pocket. Norman showed Rose how to operate the cash register, watching to make sure she had it right. Gabe stood at the window, ogling Rose. Rose glared at him as she handed him his ticket.

"Watch it, kid," she said, imitating Norman. "Remember, I know where you live."

Gabe looked at her in mock horror. "I'll behave."

"Come back next year, kid, and I'll put you to work," Norman told him. "Now, stop holding up the line and let the other customers through."

Norman watched for about fifteen minutes, until he was sure that Rose knew what she was doing.

"I'm going to open the show," he told her, heading for the door. "If you need any help, I'll be back in my office by 4:30, or the stage manager, Pete, can help you."

"Pete?" Rose asked, wishing that she knew who all these people were.

"The gentleman you met when you applied here earlier." He hurried out.

_Wonderful_, Rose thought. The bad-tempered boor with five thousand things to do was supposed to help her.

Rose counted herself as fortunate that she didn't need any help. When Norman came to check on her after the first show, she showed him that she had had no problems, besides the cash register jamming twice.

"That happens pretty often. Just smack it. It'll usually unjam. Sometimes a few choice words can help, too."

Rose stared at him.

"Under your breath, of course.'

He checked the amount of money in the register, comparing it with the number of tickets sold. The amounts matched.

"I think I'll leave you to your work, young lady," he told her. "Just yell if there's any problems. You're doing a good job."

The rest of the evening was uneventful. Rose sold tickets, and listened to the show being performed on stage. It was a rowdy show, with singing, jokes, and plenty of response from the audience.

When the ticket office closed at ten, Rose wandered backstage. She watched for short time from the wings, intending to wait until the show was over so she wouldn't have to walk home alone.

The vaudeville show was fascinating, with high energy dancing, songs, and humor. She stifled an embarrassed laugh at some particularly bawdy songs and jokes.

By eleven o'clock, Rose had had enough. Interesting as the show was, she was tired, both physically and emotionally, and decided to leave. She kept a close eye out for danger as she slipped into the alley behind the theater and headed for the boarding house.

A few people were around, some leaving the theaters and heading for home, others looking for more entertainment. One drunk whistled and took a few staggering steps after her, but gave up when Rose darted around a corner and disappeared.

Rose reached the boarding house at 11:30. A few people were around, sitting in the kitchen or the parlor, but most were either asleep or still at work. Rose made her way up the stairs, greeting Frances near the top where she was talking to a boarder.

Frances nodded to her, then resumed her conversation. Rose slipped into her room, closing the door behind her with a bang. She had never felt so tired.

Stripping off her silk dress, now much the worse for wear, Rose hung it over the rack in the corner. Unhooking her corset, she took the Heart of the Ocean and tucked it under the mattress for safe-keeping, then crawled into bed.

She slept soundly for the first time in weeks.


	11. The Runaway 11

Chapter Eleven

Rose was awakened by the sound of a baritone voice singing loudly downstairs. A higher-pitched voice screeched irritably at the singer to shut up.

Rose rolled over and glanced out the window. The sun was high in the sky, indicating that it was at least mid-morning. Groaning, she got out of bed.

Rose reached for her corset, then frowned when she saw that the diamond had torn a hole in the lining. Looking down, she saw a matching hole in her camisole. No wonder the diamond had dug into her skin!

Rose tied her corset on, more loosely than she had worn it before with no one to help her lace it. Giving the strings a tug, she grimaced, then decided that it didn't really matter. Her spare dress had an empire waist, and the corset was more comfortable laced loosely anyway.

Rose slipped on her spare garment, a green silk day dress, then slipped on her shoes and ran a brush through her tangled hair. Looking at her reflection in the dusty mirror above the dresser, she decided to leave her hair down. No one seemed to mind, and she didn't really have enough pins to put it up properly.

Making her way down the stairs, Rose heard the singing coming from the direction of the kitchen. The other voice objected again.

"Shut up, Robert!"

Robert, Rose thought. Could this be the infamous Robert Calvert?

Rose paused in the doorway of the kitchen. A young man with dark brown hair was facing the stove, cooking something that smelled like scrambled eggs. He began to sing again, his rich voice belting out the words to one of the songs Rose had heard the night before.

Alice sat at the table, her head in her hands, glaring at him. A glass containing something that looked like a raw egg sat in front of her. The egg shells were halfway across the table.

"If you don't shut up right now, I'm going to feed you these egg shells," she threatened, reaching for the discarded objects.

"The rules clearly state that singing is acceptable at 9:30 in the morning," Robert reminded her, turning around to look at her. He grinned at her misery. "No one told you to drink six beers last night."

"It was five."

"Six. I was counting."

"Shut up!"

Robert noticed Rose then. "Why, Alice, you didn't tell me you had a sister."

Carefully cradling her aching head, Alice turned to look at Rose. "She's not my sister, you buffoon. She's the new ticket seller, Rose." She looked at Rose suspiciously. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here. I just moved in yesterday."

Rose's voice was louder than normal, and Alice groaned, clutching at her head. "Why is everyone yelling this morning?"

"Because you love people who yell." Robert moved past her to greet Rose. "I don't believe Alice is telling the truth. Why would such a beauty sell tickets instead of being on the stage? Besides, if you worked for Norman, I would have met you at the party last night."

Party? Rose remembered Norman mentioning a cast party, but had assumed that ticket sellers weren't included.

"You must come to the next one. Maybe you can hide the beer from Alice."

An eggshell bounced off his head. He grinned and tossed it on the floor. Rose stared at him. He took her hand and kissed it.

"The beauteous Rose. 'For what is in a name? A rose by any other word would smell as sweet,'" he quipped.

"Your eggs are burning, Romeo," Alice announced, pointing to the now smoking pan on the stove.

"Shit!" Robert let go of Rose's hand and rushed back to the stove. He grabbed the handle of the pan and burned his hand. Yelping, he dropped the pan on the floor. Burned bits of egg scattered across the floor. Adding a few more choice words, he scooped the mess back into the pan with the spatula.

"Anyone want eggs?" he asked, brandishing the mess. A small dog that Rose hadn't noticed before hopped off a blanket in the corner and looked at him hopefully.

"Ah...I think I'll go out for breakfast," Rose told him, looking at the blackened mess.

"I'm coming with you," Alice announced. Then, remembering her raw egg, she lifted the glass and gulped it down.

"That's disgusting!" Rose gasped, staring.

Apparently Alice agreed, because she turned pale, choked, and held the glass in a death grip, staring at it as if the egg would soon need to be returned to it.

"It's called a prairie oyster," she informed Rose as soon as she was sure the egg would stay where it belonged. "It's supposed to help a hangover."

"I think you're supposed to add vinegar to it," Robert told her, squatting on the floor to feed the blackened remains of his breakfast to the dog.

Alice glared at him. Then, deciding that she was tired of sparring with him, she headed for the door, still holding her head with one hand. Rose followed her, leaving Robert sitting on the floor, forlornly, as the dog gobbled down the last of his breakfast.


	12. The Runaway 12

Chapter Twelve

Rose and Alice walked down the street in the direction of a small restaurant that Alice was familiar with. Neither said much. Alice continued to cradle her head in her hands, while Rose looked around, taking her first close look at this part of the city.

It was different from the parts of New York that she had visited as Rose DeWitt Bukater. The high-rise buildings, fancy stores, and wide sidewalks filled with fancily dressed people strolling were missing here, replaced by low buildings—most no more than three stories high, small stores and street vendors, and narrow sidewalks. People shouted in several different languages, and a grubby child raced past them, clutching a half-eaten candy stick in one hand. Litter was scattered around the sidewalks and streets, and a few cars and horse-drawn vehicles rumbled past, splashing through puddles. In the distance, the rumble of the elevated train could be heard as it pulled to a stop.

It was noisy, dirty—and vibrantly alive. The staid, plush world of upscale New York paled in comparison to the lively atmosphere of the theater district.

Rose took a deep breath as they passed the cart of an Italian woman selling sausage and fresh-baked bread. It smelled wonderful, and reminded her that she had hardly eaten since she had left home two days earlier.

Alice finally spoke. "Just in case you're wondering, I don't hate Robert. We just like to banter."

"Is he your beau or something?" Rose asked, still looking at the city.

"Robert? Oh, no. No, he's not. He's really too young for me, and he's not my type. He acts too much like my little brother."

"How old is he?"

"He's twenty-two," Alice replied, then stopped, realizing that she had just given away the fact that she was older than eighteen. "Has Frances been feeding you stories about my age?"

Rose answered reluctantly. "She said you were really twenty-five."

"Twenty-five! I am not! I'm only twenty-three."

Rose looked at her doubtfully.

"I told Frances I was eighteen when I first went to live in her boarding house seven years ago. She wouldn't take boarders younger than eighteen unless they had a parent or someone with them. I was sixteen, and my brother was eight. Our mother had died from cholera, and we had no idea where our father was. He disappeared when Gabe was three years old. I had a job as a chorus girl in one of the theaters, but we needed a place to live, and I couldn't afford an apartment, even with Gabe helping by working as a paper boy. I told Frances I was eighteen, and decided that eighteen was a good age to be, so I never acknowledge getting any older. Frances doesn't buy it, of course, but I don't care. The public thinks I'm eighteen, and won't disabuse them of the notion."

"She didn't ask my age," Rose commented, hoping Frances wouldn't throw her out if she found out Rose was only seventeen.

"You look old enough. How old are you, anyway?"

"I'd rather not say."

"You looking to be an actress or something?"

"Maybe."

"That's the usual reason women around here won't give their age. They want to remain young as long as possible, and lying about it helps."

"I never actually thought about it."

They had reached the restaurant, and Alice opened the door, ushering Rose inside. They found seats in the corner farthest from the door and waited for the waitress.

"This place has good food, good prices, good service, and not too many screeching kids, at least not in the morning." Alice touched her head tentatively, as if afraid that her hangover would come back. "So, what kind of theater do you want to do?"

"I'm not sure. I've always liked comedy. I like motion pictures, too."

"You and every other young actress. Start with theater. There's plenty of them around here, and you'll find fewer casting couches."

"Casting couches?"

Alice looked at Rose and shook her head. "You really are green."

The waitress came to take their orders. Rose ordered a full breakfast. Alice just ordered coffee.

"I never eat much in the morning," she explained. When the waitress left, she explained casting couches to Rose.

"Some directors and producers don't judge you so much for your skills on stage as for your skills in...other areas."

Rose still didn't understand.

"Your skills in bed," Alice elaborated, making a gesture that made the meaning of her words clear.

Rose was stunned. "But why? Don't they care whether the actress will make people want to watch the show?"

"They do, usually. But some of these gentlemen," Alice said the word gentlemen with a sneer, "won't even give an actress a chance unless she pleases them in bed. Some of them will even go so far as to have some fun with a girl, then not keep their end of the bargain. If she complains, she's the one who gets blamed."

"How typical." Rose thought about Cal. If she had complained about him, she would have undoubtedly taken the blame—and a few more bruises.

"Where are you from, anyway?" Alice asked, eyeing Rose's expensive dress.

Rose felt her heart begin to pound. She had no cover story to explain her presence in New York, and her expensive clothes were bound to make people curious, especially in this area.

When she got no response from Rose, Alice went on, "You sound like one of those upper class ladies who goes shopping in the expensive stores and promenades along those wide streets downtown." She eyed Rose critically. "You look like one, too. That fancy dress. What did you do? Run away from home?"

Rose could feel her palms sweating. Her mouth had gone dry, and just as she was about to attempt an answer, the waitress arrived with their orders. Rose nearly jumped out of her chair.

The waitress eyed her oddly, wondering what could be making her so nervous. Alice started to laugh, then groaned, clutching at her head again.

She looked back up at Rose, who was picking nervously at her food.

"Don't worry about it. I'm not going to turn you in. Whether you ran off to become an actress, or ran off for some other reason, is no concern of mine. If it weren't for runaways, the theater industry would go out of business."

Rose relaxed slightly. "I'm not from the upper class," she lied.

Alice snorted. "You must be a very good actress, then. You'd fool any of those ladies downtown."

_Except it wouldn't be fooling_, Rose thought.

"What's your last name, anyway?" Alice wanted to know.

"Dawson."

Alice looked at her skeptically, but didn't argue. "It works. It'll make a good stage name, anyway."

"I'm not even sure I'm going to go onstage."

"You will. Give Norman two months, and he'll drag you onstage, kicking and screaming if he has to. We are constantly losing chorus girls, and he won't let a beauty like you get away. Just in case you're wondering, though, he's not into casting couches. He has a girlfriend who'd kill him if he was."

"Who's she?"

"Me." Alice looked embarrassed, and changed the subject. "You might want to get some other clothes if you want to pass for an aspiring actress instead of an upper class runaway. Not only will people ask questions, but it makes you look naive. It makes you an easy target." She paused, sipping her coffee. "There's some stores a few streets over that sell decent clothes for not much money. I'll show you where they are when we're done here."


	13. The Runaway 13

Chapter Thirteen

After they had finished eating, Rose and Alice walked the few blocks to the shops Alice had mentioned. Rose walked slowly, trying to look at everything around her.

"You're definitely not from this area," Alice commented, as Rose stopped to stare at a dog digging through a garbage heap. "Most people try to ignore the things they see."

"It's fascinating," Rose replied, still looking at everything around her. To her unjaundiced eyes, the low buildings, piles of trash, and loose animals were a fascinating change from the almost sterile world of the upper class.

Alice shook her head. She had lived among these conditions for years, and had grown inured to it.

"Just don't make it obvious that you're looking. Someone will think you don't know your way around, and that makes you an easy target."

Rose nodded, acknowledging the wisdom of Alice's words. She continued looking around, but more discreetly.

When they reached the street they needed, Alice indicated the different stores, pointing out which ones sold ready-made clothing, which ones sold shoes or hats, which ones carried fabrics and other notions, and a variety of miscellaneous stores. Rose had never thought such a place existed.

Following Alice's lead, she went into the nearest dress shop, which had several of its best items displayed in a plain but clean window.

Rose wandered through the shop, wondering how to decide what she should buy. She wasn't even sure what size clothing to look at, she realized. Most of her clothes had been custom made.

The saleswoman took one look at her and steered her in the direction of a rack of medium-sized dresses, coats, and shirtwaists.

Rose looked at her gratefully. The woman looked her over again and shook her head.

"You probably won't find anything you like in here," she told Rose. "I don't sell much in the way of fancy dresses."

Rose glanced at her day dress. It didn't look particularly fancy to her, but she supposed that it would to someone whose customers preferred practical day clothes to garments designed for showing off.

"I just want a few simple things," she assured the saleswoman, "things that I can wear for work."

"What kind of work do you do?" the woman inquired, unable to believe that a working woman could afford an expensive silk dress.

"I sell theater tickets."

The lady looked at her skeptically. Rose could almost read her thoughts. She was being mistaken for a prostitute again.

The saleswoman shrugged and gestured to the rack of clothes. "These will do for ticket selling." She didn't believe that that was Rose's occupation for a minute, but she wouldn't turn a customer away because of what they did, as long as they were discreet about it.

Rose looked through the clothes, checking the prices. They were unbelievably low.

"I didn't know prices could get this low," she commented to Alice. Alice stared at her.

"Actually, this is one of the pricier places on this street," she commented, holding up a three-dollar tag on a shirtwaist.

Rose didn't know what to say to this. She had rarely worn anything that cost less than twenty dollars. Of course, the simple cotton and wool garments were a far cry from the expensive silks, satins, velvets, and laces she was accustomed to wearing.

"The fitting room is back there," the saleslady called, indicating a curtained off cubicle at the back of the shop.

Selecting several dresses, shirtwaists, and skirts, Rose headed toward the cubicle. As she neared it, she stopped, eyeing a rack of ladies' undergarments.

Mentally calculating how much she could afford to spend, Rose slung the items she had already selected over her shoulder and looked through the collection of lingerie.

Slips, corset covers, corsets—and a strange garment she couldn't identify hung from the rack. Rose picked one of the strange items up, wondering what it was for.

"That's called a brassiere," the saleslady informed her, seeing Rose looking in confusion at the item. "Some women wear them instead of corsets."

Rose was immediately intrigued. She had always hated wearing a corset. If this garment was more comfortable, she would prefer it to the tight, uncomfortable corsets.

"How does it work?" she inquired, trying to figure out how it was supposed to be put on.

The woman sighed and directed her toward the fitting room. Rose wasn't the first customer she had had to explain these garments to.

After being shown how to put the brassiere on, and adjusting it to fit, Rose was delighted with the difference. The new undergarment allowed her to breathe freely, and didn't dig into her skin. It was cooler in the summer heat, as well. Despite the two dollar price tag, Rose selected three of them, along with two dresses, a skirt, and two shirtwaists. She would think about other clothes later.

As she paid for her clothing, Rose still marveled over the economy of it. Her new wardrobe had cost less than a single dress would have before.

She and Alice stopped twice more, once for comfortable shoes and once for a plain white hat that matched all of Rose's clothes, before heading back toward the boarding house. After Rose had dropped her purchases off, they headed back in the direction of a small market.

Alice was unable to believe how little Rose knew about shopping for food. Although Rose knew a little bit about cooking, she had never had to shop for her own food, and often stopped, confused, trying to decide what she needed to buy.

After Rose had mistaken a head of lettuce for a cabbage, Alice took over, trying to teach Rose the rudiments of food shopping before she wound up cooking a lettuce soup or some other mistake.

Patiently, she demonstrated to Rose how to determine which vegetable was which, how to choose produce that was actually ripe, and how to determine whether bread was fresh or not. She steered Rose past a counter of meat that smelled like it had been sitting out for days, and showed her how to select fresh meat and fish from a display on ice, despite its higher cost.

Rose tried to listen, but Alice's condescending attitude got on her nerves. When Alice explained to her what a carrot was, Rose had had enough.

"I know what a carrot is!" she snapped, picking up a handful of them and adding them to her shopping basket. Alice took them back.

"Those will rot in two days," she told Rose, replacing them with fresh ones.

"I can shop for myself! I have a lifetime of experience!"

Alice laughed appreciatively. "About time you showed some backbone, Rose!"

Rose glowered at her, then sighed. "I haven't shopped for food, though, except for in restaurants." Alice had already figured out that Rose was from the upper class; there was no use pretending otherwise.

"You'll pick this stuff up soon enough. I'm just trying to save you some money. Unless, of course, you have enough that you don't need to save it."

"You're right. I need to learn this. What else should I know?"

"That's about it. You'll also need some containers to store your food, and a pen and paper to mark this stuff as yours. Starving actors will eat anything."

"That's what Frances said."

"She's right. Label your food, or someone else will eat it for you."

As they left the market, loaded down with bags of food and containers, Alice stopped to buy a newspaper from a boy standing in the shade of one of the buildings. Slinging her bags over her back, she thumbed through the newspaper as she walked.

Rose noticed Alice looking at her strangely. "What?" she asked, trying to figure out what was wrong.

"I thought you said you weren't of the upper class."

Maybe Alice hadn't figured it out after all. "I'm not."

"Then this girl is a perfect likeness for you," Alice told her, setting her bags down on the front steps of the boarding house.

Rose snatched the newspaper and looked at the article. Under the society column was a small picture of herself and Cal. She quickly scanned the text.

_Rose DeWitt Bukater, daughter of the late Walter Bukater, caused a stir two days ago by leaving her fiancé at the altar. The jilted groom, Caledon Hockley, of Hockley Steel, has expressed concern over his bride's unusual conduct. "She had been distraught since the sinking of the Titanic two months ago," Hockley explained. Miss Bukater's whereabouts are unknown. If anyone has information about her, they are urged to contact Caledon Hockley or Ruth DeWitt Bukater as soon as possible._

Rose stared at the article. Cal was looking for her. Even now, someone could have reported her whereabouts him, and he could be on his way to bring her back. Hands shaking, she tossed the newspaper aside. Forgetting her groceries, she dashed up the steps. She had to pack and leave as quickly as possible before anyone caught up to her.

Alice picked up the bags and followed Rose inside. "Rose!" she shouted.

Rose didn't stop. Lifting her skirts, she dashed up the stairs, headed for her room.

Leaving the bags in the kitchen, Alice followed her. She heard Rose's door slam as she reached the landing.

Hurrying to the end of the hall, Alice knocked on Rose's door. "Rose, can I come in?"

When there was no response, she pushed the door open. Rose stood in front of her bed, stuffing clothes into the small bag she had brought with her. She turned when Alice came in.

"Don't try to stop me."

Alice looked at her curiously. "No problem. Where are you going, by the way?"

"Anywhere, except Philadelphia."

"Why so suddenly?"

"You saw the article. He's after me."

"Your fiancé?"

"Yes. _Him_."

The way Rose said "him" convinced Alice that Caledon Hockley was not someone Rose wished to see again. "Why did you run?"

"He...I don't want to talk about it."

"It can't be that bad."

Rose looked at Alice as though were the most naive person she had ever met. "You don't know him. He's...I guess evil is the word I'd use."

"That's pretty strong."

"It fits."

"Strange...you don't usually think of upper class gentlemen as 'evil'."

"He's no gentleman. At least not when people aren't looking. And that's all I'm saying." She snapped her bag shut. The new items she had purchased almost filled the bag to overflowing.

"Does he know you're here?"

"I have no idea. If he doesn't now, he will soon."

"If he could find you here, using an assumed name, he could find you anywhere. People come here for two reasons—to become famous and to disappear. If you stay out of the spotlight, chances are he won't find you. Most people don't pay that much attention to the newspapers anyway. They read them and discard them. Most would never consider contacting him, or that other person mentioned."

"My mother."

"Your mother. At any rate, if you lay low, they'll probably ignore you. Running through the streets, trying to escape, will attract more attention than sitting quietly."

"If even one person recognized me from that picture and reports me, he'll drag me back."

"Then perhaps you need to change your looks a bit." Alice studied Rose's profile. "Your face we can't do much about, though a little makeup might help, and wearing your hat might cover it a little. Your hair...it looks almost blonde in that picture, even though it's red. If you tried coloring it brown or black, you'd look much different. And get rid of that fancy dress—you look like you're upper class. Wear plain clothes like the ones you just bought. Chances are, no one will pay any attention." She glanced at the clock on the wall. "We have about two hours until we have to be at the theater—enough time for a bit of a makeover."

Rose nodded, her mind whirling. If there was any chance that Cal wouldn't find her, she was willing to take it. And besides, if she did change her appearance, it might make running away easier if she needed to.


	14. The Runaway 14

Chapter Fourteen

"Hold still, Rose. I've almost got this stuff worked in."

Alice put a little more of the black dye into Rose's hair. Looking critically at her handiwork, she nodded to herself, then tossed a towel over Rose's head.

Rose sputtered and pushed the towel out of her eyes. "This stuff smells."

"It's turning your hair a nice, safe shade of black."

"If you say so. Can I see a mirror?"

Alice peeked under the towel. "Not yet. In about half an hour."

"How long do we have?"

"About an hour and half until we have to be at the theater."

Rose groaned. "I hope this works."

"I hope so to. Otherwise, you're going to look really strange. You might wind up with black-streaked hair instead of black, or gray hair, or some other interesting look."

"Gray hair?"

"You'll have it someday anyway."

Rose squeezed her eyes shut. "Old ladies look normal with gray hair. Young ones look...like they've had bad dye jobs."

Alice shrugged. "I don't know about that. I've seen a few young people with silver hair. They actually looked quite nice."

"Silver is not gray."

"You could tell people you've had a great shock. That's known to change your hair color."

"To white."

"Or you could wear a wig."

Rose shot her a baleful look. "Very funny." The "wigs" Alice was referring to were costume pieces, in colors and styles ranging from normal to outrageous.

Alice fell silent for a while, checking under the towel occasionally. Finally, she was satisfied.

"Let's rinse this out."

"I hope this turns out well. You still haven't told me where you got the dye."

"I bought it from Frances. She tries new colors every few weeks. Charged me plenty. I hope you appreciate this."

Rose put her hand over her eyes. "I shouldn't have asked." Robert had delightedly told her about Frances's numerous hair-dye disasters before Alice had shooed him out of the washroom.

Alice dumped a pan of water over Rose's head, sending black dye down the sink's drain. Turning on the water, she pushed Rose's head under the faucet.

Rose winced as the water poured over her head. She hated cold water. "Can't you warm this up?"

"Not without burning you."

"Wonderful. Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Of course I do. I'm an actress. I've dyed my own hair."

"How did it turn out?"

Alice didn't answer. "Wonderful," Rose complained.

"I didn't say anything."

"Exactly."

Alice ran her fingers through Rose's sodden hair, rinsing away the dye. "You do complain a lot."

"I have my reasons."

Alice just nodded knowingly. After a moment, she asked, "So you were on the Titanic?"

Rose jumped, startled, banging her head on the faucet. "What makes you think that?"

"In the article, your fiancé said you had been distraught since the sinking. So, were you there, or did you just know someone who was?"

"I was there."

"God. How awful."

Rose was surprised by the compassion in Alice's voice. Alice made herself out to be brash, tough, and world-weary, but she had a compassionate streak, too.

"It...wasn't very pleasant."

"Doesn't sound like it. All those tiny lifeboats in the middle of the ocean, the cold, people screaming for help, the ship suddenly vanishing beneath the sea..."

"It took almost three hours to sink, and it split in half before it did."

"The papers said it went down in one piece."

"The papers also said everyone was rescued."

"True. So it really split in half?"

"I watched it." The lie rolled easily from Rose's tongue. She couldn't talk about Jack yet, or the ordeal that had followed the ship's final plunge into the sea. She didn't know if she would ever be ready.

"How terrible. Of course, you were safe in a lifeboat."

"Yes." Rose wanted the conversation to end.

"I read that almost all of the first class women got off safely, and a lot of the men, too, and even second class had a lot of survivors, but there was a horribly high death toll in steerage. Of course, that was in a socialist propaganda paper, so I don't how true it is."

"It's true. I'd guess that most of the people who wound up in the water were third class, but there were some others." _Like me_, she thought.

Alice started to speak again, but Rose interrupted her. "I really don't like talking about it. It was cold, and the screams from the icy water were just horrendous. I knew some of the people who died."

"Some of the cream of society went down with that ship."

"And lots of others, too. My maid was one of those lost."

"Your maid. Poor you. I guess you found another one soon enough."

Rose jerked her head out from under the faucet, uncaring that black water spattered everywhere. "That was uncalled for. Trudy was my friend."

Alice was immediately apologetic. "I'm sorry, Rose. I didn't mean it to sound that way. A lot of rich people think everyone else is expendable."

"I don't."

Alice coaxed Rose to put her head back under the faucet. "You're almost done here. And I shouldn't have said that. If you truly thought you were better than everyone else, you wouldn't be here."

"That ship took a lot of good people with it. But it left Cal behind."

"It's said the good die young."

"So what does that say about me?"

"You're still young. Maybe you'll have your chance."

"I hope not. Or maybe I'm not good."

"I'm not answering that."

Rose glared at her, but Alice's teasing had done its work. Her mood lightened somewhat, Rose took her head out from under the faucet. Alice rubbed a towel over Rose's head, then handed her a mirror.

Rose looked at herself, astounded at the change. Her once red curls were a deep, inky black, framing her face and making it look much paler. She hardly recognized herself.

Alice nodded approvingly. "Black isn't exactly your color, but I think it'll work. With a little makeup, some plain clothes, and a hat, you'll look like an entirely different person."

"You think I'll be able to hide this way?"

"I'd have trouble recognizing you if I hadn't done the work myself."

"Let's just hope everyone else thinks the same way."

"They probably won't notice, except the people who know you."

"How much do I owe you?"

"Owe me?"

"For the dye, and the work."

Alice waved her hand dismissively. "Nothing." She smiled, tossing back her red hair. "It isn't every day I get to help a worthy cause...or reduce the competition."

Rose tossed the towel at her. Alice caught it deftly, laughing.

"Let's see about finishing your new look. We have to be at work in forty-five minutes."


	15. The Runaway 15

Chapter Fifteen

Alice was right. Few people noticed the change in Rose's appearance, except those who already knew her. Gabe looked disappointed when he saw her. "You used to look like a glamorous lady," he said, scowling. "Now you look ordinary." Alice just laughed and told her brother to find someone his own age to admire.

Robert had looked her over slowly, having already realized what she was doing, and told her that her new look "added to her mystery," and assured her that he would discover what would make "the mysterious rosebud bloom." Rose gave him a look that would have sent most men slinking off, but he just grinned at her and tipped his hat.

Frances had done a double take when she first saw Rose's now dark hair, but quickly ignored it. She had been in the business for so long that she considered it just another eccentricity. Theater people were known for being odd.

Norman had raised an eyebrow when he saw her, but he had more important things to worry about than Rose's sudden change in appearance. No one else really noticed.

It took a while, but after a few weeks, as Rose grew accustomed to her new life, she began to relax and socialize more with the people around her. She still felt a lingering fear that Cal would find her, but as the summer progressed it seemed less and less likely. Except for the newspaper article, there had been no sign that he was looking for her, and the longer she went without being found, the less likely it was that anyone would be able to find her. Her new name and new appearance hid her effectively, and amongst the throngs of people in New York, Rose was barely noticeable.

Rose began to spend more time with Alice and Robert. Alice, despite her world-wise facade, was a loyal friend, defending Rose when she found herself in over her head and teaching her how to survive in a world without servants, bodyguards, or large amounts of money. More than once, Rose found herself grateful for Alice's patient tutelage when she found herself having to learn new skills or watch out for herself on the streets. Her new life was more difficult than the one she had left behind, but once she learned to take care of herself, she thrived.

Robert was intrigued by Rose, still determined to ferret out her mystery. Rose regarded him suspiciously at first, but soon found that she liked him. His endlessly cheerful, energetic mien was a good antidote to her dark moods, when she would start dwelling upon the past and wonder why she even bothered with trying to go on. Robert invariably teased her out of these dark moods, telling her amusing anecdotes about the theater or repeating the latest dirty joke he had heard. He persisted in trying to talk her into going onstage, and Rose didn't have the heart to explain to him that she had to stay out of the spotlight.

Rose sometimes walked home from work with one or both of them, although Alice often stayed with Norman, and Robert seemed to find a new chorus girl to charm every week. She soon learned to take care of herself on the streets at night, and, after Rose was nearly accosted by a drunk one night, Alice gave her a few lessons in self-defense. Rose was grateful; had the drunk not fallen off the curb and hit his head, he undoubtedly would have dragged her into a nearby alley. Cal had been bad enough; a stranger would have been worse.

Despite the rigors and occasional dangers of the life she had chosen, Rose was usually content. She felt more alive than she ever had before, except for those brief days she had spent with Jack. She had a lot to learn about taking care of herself, but she soon found herself at home in her new environment.


	16. The Runaway 16

Chapter Sixteen

Rose hadn't really had a close friend in a long time. Her best friend in grade school, Deborah Hill, had moved to San Francisco in 1905. She and Rose had written to each other for a while, but had lost contact after the earthquake in 1906. Rose hadn't had many friends amongst her schoolmates after that—she had always insisted upon being different, and at an age and in a society where conformity was prized, many of her classmates had shunned her.

She had always gotten along well with the servants, but there was a barrier between them that Rose could not surmount. Despite her youth, she was the boss, and they the employees. Even with Trudy, the closest thing to a friend that Rose had had in a long time, the gulf was there.

Rose had wished that she could confide in Trudy, who she suspected knew what was going on with Cal. Trudy had worked for the Hockleys before transferring to the DeWitt Bukater household, and she had held a rather low opinion of Cal, although she tried to keep her thoughts to herself. But Rose had suspected that Trudy hadn't believed her story about falling off her horse the first time Cal had beaten her, and she hadn't believed her story about looking at the propellers, either.

Still, despite Trudy's sympathy with Rose's plight, she had never commented on the problem, and Rose had kept her troubles to herself. Trudy was the maid, and Rose the person she served, forming a barricade that neither one could cross.

So it was almost a new experience for Rose to have close confidants again. Alice and Robert had both become friends, although it took Rose a while to learn to trust them, and only Alice knew that Rose Dawson had once been Rose DeWitt Bukater of Philadelphia society. Robert was still determined to ferret out her secret, and Rose and Alice often laughed at his off-the-wall theories, ranging form the absurd—Rose was a globe-trotting adventuress who was gracing New York with her presence—to the uncomfortably close—Rose was a runaway society girl. Rose laughed and teased him about his theories, hoping all the while that he wouldn't find out who she really was. The fewer people who knew, the better.

Rose's own difficulties had made her more sensitive to the troubles of others, and it wasn't long before she realized that neither Robert nor Alice were as cheerful and blasé as they tried to appear.

Oftentimes after work the three would congregate in the sitting room, or, when it was especially hot, the front steps, where they would sit for an hour or two, discussing the theater, the latest happenings in the neighborhood, or, as time passed, their own individual trials and tribulations.

Upon listening to them commiserating one night, Gabe, whose latest goal in life was to be a philosopher, declared that Alice, Robert, and Rose were "the three lost souls."

Rose thought it was an apt description. Despite their camaraderie, they each carried secrets inside that they were reluctant to share.

Rose in particular was reluctant to speak out. Her lingering fear of being found was partly responsible, but more than that, she wanted to forget the sorrows of the past—her abuse at Cal's hands, the sinking of the Titanic, Jack's death. The events of the past still haunted her sleep at night. Beyond that, guilt nagged at her conscience. She had abandoned her mother, leaving her to the Hockleys' tender mercies and the vagaries of a world she didn't know how to survive in. Still, as much as Rose worried about Ruth, she had no intention of going back, or even letting Ruth know where she was. The consequences were unthinkable.

Robert, too, liked to keep his past to himself. Although he was more forthcoming than Rose, he didn't give many details of his life. She did learn, however, that his family had been part of a traveling theater troupe that had been in San Francisco when the earthquake had occurred in 1906. Robert had been just shy of sixteen years old at the time, but after that, he told her, he had been on his own.

Rose wondered what had happened, if perhaps he had lost someone close to him. She wondered, but he never gave any details. But Rose had noticed that Robert had an almost desperate need to experience everything in life, all at once, as though the opportunity would soon be taken away. His hedonistic view on life puzzled Rose at first, and despite the fact that she genuinely liked him, caused her distrust him initially.

Alice, despite her world-weary demeanor, was actually the most forthcoming of the three, especially after a few drinks. Her overconsumption of alcohol the night of the cast party had not been the first time, nor was it the last. Alice liked to sit and sip at a glass of sherry in the evenings after the show—just sip, she told Rose one night; she wasn't like her father, who would drink the whole bottle at once. And Rose had to admit, Alice never drank an entire bottle of sherry at once. Half a bottle, however, was not unheard of. Alice would finish one drink, and then decide to have "just one more." "Just one more" often translated into six or eight glasses, until Alice was decidedly tipsy. This wasn't a nightly occurrence; it seldom happened more than once a week. But when it did, Alice was inclined to run off at the mouth.

One night late in July, after her fifth glass of sherry, Alice started talking about her childhood.

Robert, who had been half-dozing in a worn horsehair chair, sat up, listening curiously. Alice had always been content to banter with him. She had seldom spoken about anything serious.

"I'm from upstate New York," Alice told Rose in response to Rose's query about where she was from. "Some of the prettiest country you'll ever see. Lots of farms, small towns. Lots of uppity people, too. Think if your Daddy's a drunk and a no-good, you must be, too." She laughed, pouring more sherry. "I was almost glad when he left, even though we hardly had a penny left. Mama sold the only valuable thing she had left, her wedding ring. She'd hidden it from Daddy so he couldn't sell it to buy liquor or gamble—he was always one game away from a big fortune, and every game was gonna be his last, just like every time he got drunk was gonna be the last time. It wasn't, of course, and one night he ran off with the creditors at his heels. Mama would've been glad to see him go, but then we didn't have any means of support. So a week later we took a train to New York City. We thought life might be better there."

Alice paused, staring at her half-empty glass. She sighed and gulped the rest of the sherry down. When she reached for the bottle again, Robert moved it out of her reach. She glared at him for a moment, then forgot about it. Warming to her story, she continued.

"We were wrong. People are just as close-minded in the city as they are in the country. Mama tried to find a job, but a lot of people wouldn't hire a woman, especially not one with two children and no husband present. It didn't matter that Daddy had ran out on us—they assumed that Mama must be an immoral hussy. Of course, she had to keep us fed, so she did some things that convinced them she was immoral. Some of those nice businessmen who wouldn't hire her during the day were only too happy to hire her at night. Of course, this only lowered her further in their eyes."

Alice paused again; then, before Robert could stop her, snatched the bottle of sherry back. After pouring herself another glass, she continued.

"Mama finally found a job sewing clothes in a sweatshop. It was horrible—crowded, dirty, low-paying. There wasn't any ventilation, and it was hot in summer and freezing in winter. If one person got sick, everyone did, but you didn't dare miss a day because they'd replace you. There were always people looking for jobs. They hired Gabe and me, too, at much lower pay, even though Gabe was really too young. We worked for about two months, until Mama decided that the work was too much for Gabe and made him quit. After about a week, when she realized that Gabe couldn't watch himself, she made me quit, too, even though it sometimes meant she didn't get to eat. Sixteen hours a day and she couldn't feed herself. She tried to find another job, but she was at work so much that she didn't have time. The workers got Sundays off, but there still wasn't really time to look, and a lot of places were also closed then. There was a free school nearby, so she sent me there, and Gabe joined me after a couple of years. Mama wanted to make sure we didn't wind up like her. She only had a third-grade education. So we went to school and she worked, and that place sapped her strength and made her old before her time. She was twenty-eight when she started working, and thirty-three when she died, but she looked fifty. She literally worked herself to death. When the cholera came, she didn't have the strength to fight it. She died within two days. I was already working in the theater, so we weren't completely without support. I had been working since I was fourteen—I looked older than I was, and the men appreciated that."

At Rose's shocked look, she elaborated, "I was very talented on the casting couches, and I knew enough to keep from getting pregnant—men are often stupid about such things, so it's up to us to worry about it. I worked in the sort of places that only men go to. The money was good, and it was even better if you were willing to do extra favors for the customers—but I only did that if we really needed the money. I finally found work in a 'respectable' theater, even though it didn't pay as well. It was still better than what I'd been doing. No more 'favors.' Mama never knew for sure what I was doing, but I think she suspected. She didn't say anything, though, even after I got kicked out of school when one of the teachers saw me dancing. I'd learned enough anyway, and I was making more money than Mama was. We had enough that there was always food, and we moved into a small apartment instead of the one room we'd had in a boarding house. Gabe and I had to find a new place to live after she died, but that was okay—this place is decent. We could afford to live here with me working in a respectable place. I didn't have to do any special 'favors' to make ends meet."

Alice stared at her now-empty glass. She glanced at the bottle blearily, then set her glass aside.

"I've had enough," she declared, her words a bit slurred.

"No lie," Robert told her, taking the bottle before she could drop it.

"Shut up, Robert," she told him, getting unsteadily to her feet. Rose got up too, uncertain as to whether Alice could remain on her feet.

Alice moved unsteadily in the direction of the door. As she reached it, she turned back to Rose.

"You know, one of those men who wanted special favors looked just like your ex-fiancé. He liked redheads, too, especially if he could beat up on them."

Rose stared at her, stunned. Alice grinned drunkenly and stumbled out the door. Rose and Robert heard her swear as she tripped on the bottom stair; then her feet thumped loudly as she made her way to the second floor.

"Ex-fiancé?" Robert looked at Rose speculatively, as though a piece of the puzzle had fallen into place.

"She didn't mean anything by it," Rose told him. "She's drunk..."

"In vino veritas," he told her, hoping that more information would be forthcoming.

When Rose stubbornly refused to say anything, he sighed and held up the half-empty bottle. "That explains a lot."

"What does?"

"Alice. Why she is the way she is." He had never sounded so serious.

"You care about her, don't you?"

"Like a sister."

Rose raised an eyebrow at him.

"I have no interest in any other sort of relationship with her. She's too unstable. She flits from man to man, leaving more than one broken heart in her wake. She always convinces herself she's in love, but as soon as she gets bored she's gone. Some of these men have abused her, taken advantage of her, though she always claims to be in control. She's not; she lets them control her, until she's ready to leave. Then there's no stopping her. She'll degrade herself for the worst of them, but when she's ready to go, she'll leave the nicest ones just as fast as the worst."

Rose shook her head. "That doesn't sound very...healthy."

"It isn't, and she knows it. But I don't think she can help herself, which may be why she drinks so much—she's trying to get away from it. She's actually doing pretty well right now—Norman is a good influence on her. I think she's starting to get bored, though. It's going to be rough on both of them when she drops him—he's her boss."

He looked at the bottle. It had been full at the beginning of the night.

"She probably won't remember what she said. We'd probably do best not to mention it. She can have a temper, especially if she has a hangover."

Rose nodded. "It would be best not to repeat _anything_ she's said." She looked him in the eye. "There is no ex-fiancé. Got it?"

Robert had never seen this expression on Rose's face before—a mixture of fear, determination, and desperation. He would be wise not to cross her on this.

"It doesn't leave this room," he promised her.

"Good." Rose started up the stairs, her mind awhirl. She knew that Alice hadn't meant to blurt out her secret, but the fact remained that she had. "In vino veritas," as Robert had said.

Rose realized that she would have to be careful what she said around Alice. Sober, Alice was a loyal friend who would never betray Rose's confidence. Drunk, anything went.

She thought about what Alice had said, certain that her friend would never have been so talkative sober. Alice had seen the darker side of life, even more than Rose had.

As Rose slipped into bed, she thought about what Alice had said about her mother. Shuddering, she wondered if Ruth would wind up like that—working in some dark, cramped sweatshop, struggling to survive. Her mother was only thirty-seven years old; she should have many good years left. Where was she now? What was she doing? Had Rose truly made the right decision in not contacting her?


	17. The Runaway 17

Chapter Seventeen

August 18, 1912

"Where's Nancy?" Norman's voice boomed through the green room, where the cast and crew of the vaudeville show were assembled, waiting for the start of the evening's performances. All were present, except for Nancy Sloane, one of the chorus girls.

Norman glared at each cast member in turn, as though they could tell him where the missing chorus girl was. No one spoke.

Norman sighed irritably. As Robert had predicted, Norman and Alice had broken up a few days earlier, and their relationship had promptly deteriorated to the point that they were always at each other's throats, and often took their irritation out on other people. Rose and Robert had been studiously avoiding both of them.

Norman turned to glare at Robert. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about this, would you, Robert?"

Robert tried to look innocent. "Why are you looking at me?"

"Because you seduce another chorus girl every week, and this isn't the first time that one of your former girlfriends has pulled a vanishing act."

"I'm not to blame this time. She turned me down."

Alice snorted rudely. "She was smart, then." Alice had managed to finish off an entire bottle of sherry the night before, and was still hung over. Robert sighed, trying to ignore her. She would be fine when she went on stage, but until then, she was more irritable than a drenched cat.

Alice went on. "She ran off with that guy who came to the stage door last week, the one who was looking for the latest star for Hollywood movies."

"Him! He's nothing but a fly-by-night smooth operator! I told him to leave when he showed up."

"Well, he came back. I overheard him talking to Nancy last night, and she was very eager to head off to California with him. When I was heading for home, I saw her get into a carriage with him, headed in the direction of the train station."

"Shit." Norman sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. "We can do without her in most numbers, but that opening number requires the whole cast to balance out the stage. We can't open without it, and we can't do it without her."

"I told you we needed understudies," Alice told him, snidely.

"Alice, I am aware that I have made a few mistakes. You don't need to go on about it."

"If you'd listened to me, you wouldn't have this problem," Alice retorted.

Robert suddenly spoke up, before the argument could escalate into a full-blown shouting match. "Why don't you put Rose on stage?"

"Rose?"

"You know, the ticket seller. I know for a fact that she knows the song, because I heard her singing it while she was doing her laundry one day, and she walks so gracefully, I'm sure she could dance, too."

"We really don't have time to train her or costume her. We open in fifteen minutes!"

"Without her, we won't open at all."

Norman rubbed his temples, conceding Robert's point.

"She looks like she's about the same size as Nancy. She could wear Nancy's costume. And the part isn't that big. All she really has to do is follow what everyone else is doing. I can go get her."

Norman shook his head. "I'll go get her. You get ready to go on stage." As he turned to leave, Alice raised her middle finger at him and smirked. "We might need a new star, too."

As he left the room, he heard something smash against the doorframe, and the sound of Robert and Alice quarreling. He had known from the start that his relationship with Alice wouldn't last—she was one of the most unstable people he had ever met—but he hadn't expected it to end quite so badly. Alice's behavior had been deteriorating ever since, courtesy of her heavy drinking, and he was seriously considering replacing her. He didn't want to; she had been a major draw for years, and she was an excellent actress, singer, and dancer, but she was becoming increasingly hard to deal with, and had nearly refused to go on stage one night. Only Robert's intervention had convinced her to humor him and go on with the performance.

As he stepped into the ticket office, he looked outside. The size of the audiences had been growing progressively smaller over the last couple of weeks, and it was almost time to shut down the vaudeville show and put on the serious theatrical production for the fall. He sighed inwardly, not looking forward to dealing with Alice in her role of Desdemona in Othello. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, suddenly realizing that he had to replace Nancy as one of the prostitutes in Othello, as well.

Rose turned to look at him, wondering what he was doing there. Shouldn't he be getting ready to introduce the show?

One of the crew members had followed him in. Norman directed him to work the ticket window, then escorted Rose into the hallway.

Rose looked at him nervously. Had she done something wrong? Had someone come looking for her?

"What's going on?" she asked, trying to read his expression.

"One of the chorus girls ran off with some smooth-talking 'movie producer'. We can't open the show without her, because we need her to balance out the stage. I need you to go on stage tonight in her place."

Rose didn't know whether to shout exuberantly at her good fortune, or back away and refuse. She had wanted to be an actress for a long time, but she was still worried that Cal would find her. New York wasn't that far from Philadelphia, and Cal might still be looking for her.

"I can't."

"It's easy. Just follow what the other chorus girls do, and sing. Robert says you know the song. Can you dance?"

"Well...yes, but—"

"Good. Hurry up and get into costume. Nancy's costume should fit you, and we'll start a few minutes late so you can get your makeup on."

Rose shook her head. "I really can't go on stage."

"Why?"

Rose opened her mouth and snapped it shut. She still couldn't talk about her ordeal.

"You're a runaway, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

"It's unlikely that anyone will recognize you. Besides, most of these people have already seen you, when they bought a ticket. You look very different now from the way you did when you first arrived here, with your hair dyed. Also, the costume includes a feathered headdress and heavy makeup. The likelihood of anyone recognizing you is almost nil."

Rose hesitated. She wanted to go on stage, but...

"I'll pay you an extra two dollars for the night."

Rose nodded. She could use the money. "All right. I'll do it."

"Good. Go backstage to the chorus girls' dressing room. Someone will tell you what to do."

"Right." Rose dashed off.

After changing into her costume and putting on her makeup, Rose felt more confident. She bore little resemblance to Rose DeWitt Bukater, society girl. Instead, she was Rose Dawson, actress. Her stomach fluttered nervously as she followed the other girls to their entrance. She hadn't been on stage since she was thirteen and had taken part in a ballet recital.

The music filled the air, and Rose danced onto the stage with the other chorus members, trying to follow what they did. Unfortunately, she had never even seen this part of the show, and she had no idea what was coming. As the group spread across the stage and whirled to face the audience, Rose bumped into Robert, who steadied her and improvised a leering grin. Embarrassed, Rose tried to follow the other chorus girls, but her misstep had thrown her off. As she tried to glide after them, she ran into Alice, who was making her entrance. Alice stumbled, tripping on Rose's skirt, and fell flat on her face. Her feet tangled in Alice's costume, Rose fell against a line of chorus dancers, knocking the first one over. The others soon followed him onto the floor, like dominoes. The music came to a disjointed halt.

The audience roared with laughter. Rose slowly picked herself up, her face flaming. Norman strode out on stage, a fake smile glued to his face. Turning the audience, he waited for them to calm down.

"I'm glad you've enjoyed our little joke! Now, we will resume our regular show."

The cast quickly left the stage, and the piano player began on the second number. Norman glowered at Rose.

"I thought you said you knew how to dance!"

"I do. But I don't know this dance, and no bothered to teach it to me first!"

"Why didn't you just follow the others?"

"I did! But I didn't know what they were going to do, so I was a beat behind. It takes rehearsal to get this right."

Norman shook his head, trying to calm his temper. It was fortunate that the audience had responded so well. But Rose was right; she couldn't be expected to know the dance without rehearsing it first.

"All right. I'm sorry." It was a rare concession for him to make. He gestured to the other chorus girls, motioning them forward. "Rehearse the dance with Rose. You can block it out on stage between shows. It's only for another week and a half anyway. I don't want a repeat of tonight's mistakes. The next audience may not be so amused."

The others nodded, some looking at Rose resentfully, envious of her sudden success, when many of them had had to struggle for their roles. Others resented the fact that she had ruined the opening number, no matter how unintended the ruination had been. But they agreed, nevertheless, to train her in the dance. As Norman said, it was only for another week and a half, and the show must go on.

Rose learned a lot that night, and by the second performance of the evening she did well enough that no one laughed. Despite their earlier resentment, the other chorus members respected her efforts, and Rose found herself in a new, and pleasant, career.


	18. The Runaway 18

Chapter Eighteen

Rose's rise as an actress was phenomenal. During the final week of the vaudeville show, she appeared in all the numbers that Nancy had once appeared in. Her skill as a dancer and a singer impressed even Norman, who had originally considered her only as a temporary replacement, and she soon proved herself a good actress, too.

When Norman held auditions for the role in Othello that Nancy had vacated, Rose was first in line. Her hard-eyed look and acted implications that she knew what prostitution was like won her the part, although an understudy was also hired. Norman was sufficiently impressed with Rose's acting skill that he also made her the understudy for the role of Desdemona, a move which Alice at first resented and later accepted, under the assumption that since Rose was her friend, she wouldn't try to steal the role from her.

Rose had no intention of trying to take over Alice's part. She learned it, but assured Alice that she would only take over if Alice was unable to go on.

Alice's disposition had improved considerably since she had found a new boyfriend. Oddly enough, however, she refused to discuss him with Rose, though she had often spoken of her relationships with other men in the past. Rose suspected that Alice was involved in a relationship that required discretion, especially after her new boyfriend began presenting her with expensive clothes and jewelry. Rose was familiar enough with the mores of some members of the upper class to understand that Alice had found herself a wealthy protector, possibly a married, wealthy protector. Such relationships did require discretion, although a man of the upper class could keep a mistress and not be looked down upon, as long as he was relatively discreet. Rose knew that Cal had had other girlfriends while they had been engaged, though he had tried to hide it from her. Rose hadn't minded. When he was with the other women, he wasn't bothering her.

A woman of the upper class, on the other hand, was usually looked down upon if she took a lover. Some did, particularly widows or women whose husbands were gone a great deal of the time, but it was frowned upon, and a woman whose indiscretions were discovered was often ostracized. It struck Rose as hypocritical, that Cal could run around with other women and not be looked down upon, but that her own relationship with Jack had been criticized and regarded as a sin. Some of her former acquaintances had shunned her after Titanic, but had viewed Cal as a true gentleman, because he was still willing to marry her even after she had betrayed him. They were probably even more sympathetic now, because "the little slut", as Cal had called her, had left him at the altar. Still, as Rose had told Cal, she would rather have been Jack's whore than Cal's wife, because at least Jack had treated her with love and respect, while Cal had viewed her as a possession.

Throughout September, as the company rehearsed Othello, Rose's mind was occupied with thoughts of the past. Her role as a prostitute brought back memories of her time with Cal, of the day that her mother had announced to her that an arrangement had been reached with the Hockleys, and of her mother's explanation of why it was so important for Rose to marry Cal. Looking back, Rose realized that she had been as much a prostitute then as any of the women she had seen on the streets or in the run-down hotel she had stayed in the first night in New York. A respectable prostitute, but a prostitute nonetheless. She had sold herself to keep her mother—and herself, she finally admitted—solvent. Either one of them could have gone to work for a living, or entered into a happy marriage, but Rose had allowed herself to be exchanged for the fortune so important to high society.

Her character in the play was supposed to be happy, but Rose couldn't help injecting a little angst into her portrayal, with a perpetual hard-eyed look and seemingly forced happiness. Norman had been surprised at first by the way that Rose portrayed this character—it would have been more appropriate for Desdemona—but he soon instructed one of the stagehands to get her a beer stein as a prop, so that she could believably play the character as slightly drunk. An unconventional portrayal, to be sure, but one which worked.

Rose was a nervous mess on opening night. She had never spoken before an audience before, and was afraid she would forget her lines, trip, or otherwise make a fool of herself. Her nervousness was so great that her stomach hurt and her hands shook, but Alice had assured her that stage fright was perfectly normal, and that if she messed up, she could always ad lib her way back to where she was supposed to be. Rose still wasn't completely sure that she could go through with it, but, as it turned out, she didn't have any choice. Her understudy, who Rose had been tempted to turn the part over to, had unexpectedly become pregnant and had had a back alley abortion, and was, on opening night, sick and miserable, totally incapable of going on stage.

This bit of news brought back more memories for Rose—memories she had tried hard to suppress. Three weeks after the Carpathia had docked, Rose had begun to find herself getting sick in the mornings. Not every morning, but often enough that she had wondered what was wrong. No one had ever explained the symptoms of pregnancy to her, so she hadn't realized what was going on. She had thought about going to a doctor, but the morning sickness had been sporadic enough that she hadn't paid that much attention until several weeks had passed. More time might have passed before she realized what was going on, had Cal not one day, in a fit of temper, punched her in the stomach.

Rose had at first attributed her aching stomach to the blow, but by evening the dull ache had progressed into painful cramps, and she had taken to her bed, refusing dinner. Unwilling to admit that Cal had hit her, she had told her mother that she an upset stomach, and had spent the evening in bed, curled up into a fetal position. By eleven o'clock that night, the cramps had grown so painful that Rose had had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. Forcing herself to get out of bed, she had stumbled into her bathroom, hoping that some aspirin would dull the pain, and had discovered that she was bleeding, far more heavily than she would have during a normal menstrual period.

At that discovery, Rose had suddenly remembered the odds and ends of things she had heard about pregnancy, and, looking back, had realized that her last period had been two weeks before she had boarded the Titanic—and it was now early June. It was only then that Rose had known that she was having a miscarriage. She had known that she needed a doctor, but Ruth would have been shocked and ashamed if she had realized what was going on, and Rose had been afraid that if she had wakened one of the servants, they would have told her mother what had happened. So Rose had spent the night in her bathtub, biting down on a washcloth when the pain got too great, letting the blood—and the tissue that would have been her baby—wash down the drain. She had lain there for hours, half-afraid that she would bleed to death, half-afraid that she wouldn't. She was miserable in the life she was living, and dreading her wedding to Cal in just a few weeks. Bleeding to death from a miscarriage had seemed an easy way out.

The bleeding had finally slowed around four AM, and the cramps had stopped. Shakily, Rose had gotten out of the bathtub, scrubbed away the bloodstains, and cleaned herself up before slipping back into bed, where she had fallen into an exhausted, restless sleep, her dreams plagued by visions of gushing blood and crying babies. She couldn't even be sure of who the father of her baby had been—it could have been either Cal or Jack. She had tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that it was most likely Cal's baby—a man she hated—but it hadn't helped. Regardless of who the father had been, it had been her child, and it was gone before she had even realized that it was there. She had even tried to convince herself that if it was Jack's baby, it was better to lose it early than to have Cal come up with some way to get rid of it after it was born and she had grown attached to it. So many babies died in their first year that it would have been easy for Cal to dispose of an illegitimate child, making it look like a natural occurrence. But she had still mourned.

Rose had been weak and shaky for a week afterward, as her body recuperated from her loss. She had finally begun to feel better physically, but she had been unable to forgive Cal for hitting her, for causing her to lose her baby. The last of the bleeding had stopped two days before the wedding, but Rose had been dreading her wedding night. Her body still hadn't been sufficiently recovered to engage in intercourse, and she had suspected that if she told Cal what had happened, he would have beaten her, and then taken her anyway. He would have delighted in the pain he caused her; it was just the way he was.

Rose had tried hard to suppress the memory of her loss, but it still haunted her dreams, and, while she sympathized with her understudy's plight, she was unable to understand why anyone would want to give up something so precious as their own child. She would have given anything to have her baby back, even if it meant living with Cal and giving up her freedom. It was better, she thought, to prevent a child in the first place, as Alice did, than to lose one later, even if it was by choice, as her understudy had done.

Rose went on stage that night, her performance heightened by her anxiety and her struggle against her memories, and the audience cheered her at the curtain call, despite the fact that her role was very small. Rose put aside her fears of going on stage after that night, and managed to enjoy her budding career as an actress, but the memories that had surfaced that night refused to be suppressed, and always lingered in a corner of her mind.


	19. The Runaway 19

Chapter Nineteen

Rose's big break came early in November, when Alice, stricken with a bad cold and laryngitis, was unable to go on stage. Rose's understudy, fully recovered now, took on Rose's part, and Rose went on as Desdemona.

Rose was a mass of nerves that night. She had grown accustomed to being on stage, to being watched and stared at, but she had never had such a big role before, and wondered what Norman had been thinking when he had made her the understudy for such a big role. Nevertheless, she accepted the challenge, taking Alice's place until her friend regained her voice, and adding her own dimensions to the role.

In Rose's view, Desdemona was more than just the tragic victim of jealousy and misunderstanding. She regarded her as the victim of an unaccepting society as well, and as someone unwittingly caught in a power struggle. She knew that her view was probably influenced by her own experiences, but she had learned that a good actress drew from her own experience to bring depth to a character, which was why both she and Alice did so well in the role.

The audience was disappointed at first that Alice was not going to be on stage that night, but Rose's performance was more than adequate, and word soon spread about her. Rose took on the role for several more nights, until Alice was able to speak adequately again, and a number of people came back to see her perform. To be sure, it wasn't as many as came to admire Alice, but Rose was just starting out, and an understudy, so she did not expect the adulation that Alice received.

Robert, who was playing Cassio, had actually expressed relief that Alice was absent from the theater for several nights. Alice's new boyfriend had begun knocking her around, but Alice, convinced that she was in love, refused to complain, explaining away the bruises as the results of a fall, but Rose had enough experience with an abusive relationship to doubt the veracity of Alice's words. Because of her contentious relationship, Alice had once again taken to sipping sherry in the evenings, especially as the weather grew colder and she felt the need to have something to warm her up. The abusive boyfriend and the alcohol did little to improve her already high-strung temperament, and people had begun avoiding her again, not wanting to be the recipients of one of her tongue-lashings.

Alice and Norman were still not getting along, and around the middle of November, after a particularly vociferous argument, Norman told Alice that she would not be welcomed back to the theater after Othello ended. Alice blamed Rose for her predicament, first screaming at her, then sinking into a sullen silence. Although she soon found new work, and seemed to have forgiven Rose, the closeness they had once shared had vanished. Although they lived in the same boarding house, Rose had to admit that she missed Alice.

At the same time, Rose's relationship with Robert became closer. She refused to become romantically involved—not only had she seen many girls get their hearts broken by Robert, but she wasn't ready to enter a new relationship, after the misery of her engagement to Cal and the trauma of Titanic—but they became much closer friends. Both were very worried about Alice, who often disappeared after the show and didn't return until the next evening. Alice's behavior was becoming increasingly erratic, her breath often smelling of alcohol, and they weren't certain whether the alcohol was responsible, or something worse.

Alice continued to appear on the stage, but at times her performance was barely adequate, and Norman had quietly taken Rose aside and asked her to be prepared to take over at a moment's notice. Sometimes Alice's behavior would take on an almost manic quality; she would go for days without sleep, perform brilliantly on the stage, and talk non-stop, often bringing Frances's wrath down upon her for making too much noise at night. Eventually, she would grow tired and irritable, consuming far more sherry than was healthy, and finally sink into a depression, sometimes refusing to leave her room. Rose would go on stage in Alice's place, explaining to Norman that Alice was sick. Norman once muttered under his breath that drunk was more like it, but he was trying to distance himself from her, and didn't try to interfere.

When Alice was feeling normal, her behavior was pleasant, and she was easy to get along with, but the closer it got to the time when the play would close, and the more her boyfriend kicked her around, the less pleasant her behavior became. She often shouted at Rose and Robert, and would sometimes stare suspiciously at Rose, as though she was certain that Rose was plotting against her.

Rose finally asked Gabe what he thought about the way Alice was acting, but he shrugged and said that Alice had these spells from time to time, and she would eventually get over it. She had had spells like this twice before, once when she had been thrown out of school, and shortly after their mother had died, leaving them to fend for themselves. It seemed that she reacted badly to the strain, and would temporarily sink into the depths of her own misery. He attributed this spell to her losing her position with the theater company, having to live with the person she blamed for the loss of her job, her boyfriend, and too much drinking.

Rose remembered some of the things she had read about how the mind worked, and one afternoon, when she had free time, she wandered over to one of New York's many libraries and continued her reading of the work of Dr. Freud.

She remembered how shocked and angry Cal and her mother had been when she had discussed Freud's ideas on the Titanic. Of course, she admitted, she hadn't been talking about the most polite of Freud's ideas. Nevertheless, Rose found psychology fascinating, and soon began reading the work of other philosophers and psychologists.

Rose would never be absolutely certain of what Alice's problem was, but her studies brought her to a good theory—Alice suffered from manic-depressive disorder, along with alcoholism. Rose didn't know what could be done to help her friend—she thought that giving up the sherry would be a good step, but Alice didn't seem inclined to do so, and if her bottles of it disappeared, she simply bought more, assuming that she had drunk it all. The manic-depressive episodes couldn't be helped; there weren't any adequate medications available, and Rose suspected that Alice drank partly to try to treat herself. Any attempt to discuss it with her was met with hostility, leading Rose, and Robert, after Rose had discussed her findings with him, to believe that Alice knew that something was wrong, but had no idea what to do about it. They simply kept an eye on her and hoped that she would calm down before long.

Rose felt almost guilty about accepting the praise and adulation when she took over the role of Desdemona, knowing that Alice had worked long and hard to get where she was, and that she couldn't help what was happening to her. But someone needed to fill the role, and Rose was very talented.

One night early in December, a recruiter from a traveling Shakespeare troupe approached her after the show. Rose was cautious—she had heard enough stories about fly-by-night operators, casting couches, and other dangers of theatrical life to have a healthy amount of suspicion—but she was also intrigued. The Shakespeare troupe was in New York for the entire month of December, and held performances every night except Monday, so Rose went to see one of the plays on a Sunday evening, accompanied by Robert.

The troupe of actors was excellent, very professional, and the recruiter had seen her both as the prostitute and as Desdemona, and felt that her level of talent was just what the company needed to replace an actress who had decided to get married and quit the life of a wandering performer. The company was performing two plays, Hamlet and As You Like It, and the recruiter convinced Rose to audition.

Rose was leery at first, but Robert had done some work as a traveling actor, and was familiar with this group. He was of the opinion that they were among the best around, and that Rose would be a fool to pass up the opportunity. So Rose went to the audition.

Seven actresses had been called to audition, with openings for three actresses in the troupe—two for small roles and one for lead roles. The director explained that the reason that he had not promoted one of the other actresses in the troupe to the position of leading lady was because those that wanted to be leads weren't yet adequate for the company's needs—they learned a lot as they went along—and those who were didn't want to be leads.

Rose auditioned with two monologues she had memorized from books of plays that she had found in the library—one comical and one dramatic. Rose had never auditioned for anything before, but Robert had assured her that this was how it was done, and she took him at his word.

Two of the actresses were eliminated the first day, but the other five, including Rose, were asked to come back the next week. Rose had her doubts about being accepted—her acting had some rough edges, and most of her experience, besides the few months she had spent working in the Baker Theater, had been in real life, putting on a happy, convincing face when she felt like running and screaming.

So it was much to Rose's surprise that she found herself cast as the new leading lady for the Shakespeare troupe. She was excited, but also worried, since she had built a satisfying life for herself in New York City, and she wasn't certain that she wanted to give it up to face the unknown. Norman wanted her to come back after Othello ended in a dance role he was choreographing for her, and Rose couldn't decide which she wanted to do. She told the director of the troupe that she would have to think about it, uncertain as to what she wanted. Half of her wanted the adventure that would come with traveling around the country and performing, while the other half of her feared giving up what she had come to know, and once again committing herself to the unknown.

The director of the troupe gave her until December thirty-first to decide, the night that they were leaving New York and heading for Boston. Rose promised him that she would give him an answer by then. It was still two days before Christmas, and she had some time to think. She wanted adventure, to make it count, as Jack had said, but she worried about leaving Alice, although Alice had calmed down somewhat since her boyfriend had returned to his family for the holidays. Still, Rose wasn't certain what to do, and she wasn't any closer to making a decision on December thirtieth, the last night of Othello.


	20. The Runaway 20

Chapter Twenty

December 30, 1912

Alice did not show up for the final performance of Othello. Neither Rose nor Robert knew where she was, and all Gabe knew was that she had gone off with her boyfriend that morning and hadn't returned. Rose wondered if Alice felt that, since she wouldn't be coming back to the theater, she didn't have any reason to finish the show.

Rose took Alice's place for the last time that night, giving her performance everything she had. She didn't know when she would do Shakespeare again, having decided that she wasn't ready to leave the secure life she had established and venture out into the unknown. The audience cheered wildly afterward, but Rose felt curiously detached, as though she were watching from a great distance. She had the odd feeling that she would not see this theater again, although she had decided to stay on and remain with the company. She had not yet informed Norman of her decision, but she planned to do so the following night, when the cast and crew would be gathering for a New Year's Eve celebration. She would inform the director of the Shakespeare troupe that she could not accompany them tomorrow morning.

The audience applauded delightedly after the show, and someone brought her flowers, but Rose had the strangest feeling that someone was watching her with hostility. She didn't know how to explain the feeling—perhaps it was her own guilt at having auditioned for a role, won it, and then decided to give it up. Maybe, she thought, it was Jack's ghost, condemning her for not making it count. But Rose didn't feel ready to leave yet, and she had found a good life and good friends, even if Alice was extremely flighty. She also felt that it would be wrong to abandon her friend when she had so many problems.

Rose lingered after the audience had left, the anxious feeling growing stronger. She had greeted several audience members at the back door, including a teenage girl not much younger than herself whose great aspiration in life was to be an actress. Rose told her what she had learned, leaving out the seamier portions, and the girl had run off, promising to take Rose's advice and study monologues for audition purposes.

Most of the cast and crew had already left when Rose finally slipped out the back door and into the alley. No one was around as she started down the dark, heavily shadowed back street. Halfway down the street, Rose thought she heard someone moving in one of the shadowed doorways, but when she didn't see anyone, she attributed it to an overactive imagination. No one was lingering with dangerous intent. If there was someone there, it was likely a drunk, passed out in some pile of garbage, or a homeless person, seeking shelter from the cold night in the only shelter they could find.

Rose passed the doorway where she thought she had seen someone and continued up the alley. She had gone about ten feet when she heard footsteps behind her. Whirling around, she saw someone following her through the shadows.

"I don't know who you are, but you'd better stop right now. I don't have any money, so if that's what you're after, you'll be very disappointed. I don't have any jewelry, either, so you'd better go look for another victim." It wasn't the first time that someone had followed her, hoping that she had something worth stealing.

The person stopped, standing almost hidden in the shadows. He laughed, a low, chilling sound. Rose stepped back, every instinct screaming at her to run. But she knew that if she did, he would be upon her in seconds. Slowly, she backed away, trying to put as much distance as possible between them.

There was something familiar about the laughter. Rose felt a chill run down her spine as the man moved toward her, more quickly now. She tensed, ready to fight.

"No jewelry? Rose, you really can't expect me to believe that. That diamond engagement ring, those diamond earrings, the Heart of the Ocean..."

Suddenly, Rose knew who the stalker was. A scream froze in her throat as Cal stepped from the shadows and grabbed her arm.

Rose struggled, employing every self-defense move that Alice had taught her, but Cal had the strength lent by anger...and madness, she realized. In less than a minute, he had her pinned against the wall, his hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing so that she could barely breathe. Rose stood perfectly still, trying not to antagonize him further.

Cal laughed again, the same chilling sound, and Rose realized that he was going to kill her. She tried to struggle, but she felt light-headed from the lack of oxygen. He squeezed her throat harder, choking her. Tears ran down Rose's face, from the pain, and the fear, and the struggle to get any air at all. Waves of blackness edged at her consciousness, and Cal smiled, enjoying her terror.

Suddenly, he eased his grip. Rose choked and coughed, drawing in air. Her lungs seemed to be on fire, a sensation she hadn't known since the night the Titanic sank and she had struggled to the surface of the freezing water. She tried to move, but Cal pushed her harder against the wall. His hand still on her throat, he allowed her just enough air to remain conscious. His other hand moved to touch her hair, tugging painfully on her inky black curls.

"You looked much better as a redhead," he told her, yanking on a handful of her hair. Rose tried to jerk her head away, but he only pulled harder.

"You redheads are all alike," he continued. "Even when you try to disguise your true nature, you're still little whores, all of you. You may have been upper class, but you're still no better than your good friend Alice." He smiled at Rose's shocked look. "I guess she didn't tell you about me. Alice is good at keeping her mouth shut—when she's sober. A few drinks, and she'll tell you anything you want to know. She told me all about how you had run away from me, about how you had stolen her place on the stage, and about the lovely little boarding house you live in. Alice fell in love with me from the start, just like all you little redheads. She knows what she's doing—very professional. I guess her years dancing for men taught her everything she needed to know."

"You..." Rose choked out. "You're the rich man she was in love with, the one she wouldn't talk about, the one who gave her all those expensive presents—and a lot of bruises."

Cal laughed. "And she loved every minute of it. Just like you."

"You—"

"—unimaginable bastard?" Cal mocked her. "Hardly, sweetpea. My mother gave birth to me before she revealed her true nature. She was a redhead, just like you, and any male was fair game for her, from the strongest, most virile of young men, to boys—even very young ones."

Rose's eyes widened in horrified comprehension of what he was telling her. Cal—and his mother? No wonder he had gone mad.

"No, I am not a bastard. I am my father's son—and my mother's. She was just like you—and she left, too."

"She was sick. She died—"

"She left. How is not important. She deserved what she got, just like you." He tightened his hand on her throat again.

Rose struggled, pleading with him with her eyes not to do this. He loosened his hand again, wanting her to hear one more thing.

"Your mother is just like you, too. My father is smitten with her."

"She's...all right?"

"My father, fool that he is, believes himself in love with her. She will destroy him, as all of your kind do. I can't allow that."

"Leave her alone, Cal."

"She's dangerous, evil, as all of you redheads are. My father has been protecting her, making sure that she remains safe from harm. He even paid her debts, and gives her money. He doesn't understand what she is. I tried to explain it to him, but he has been guarding her ever since. One day, he'll let his guard down, and I'll be able to take care of the problem."

"Stay away from her. She hasn't done anything to you." Rose knew all too well what Cal was capable of, and the thought of her mother in Cal's hands was more than she could bear.

"She's a redhead, just like all the others." His hands tightened suddenly around Rose's throat again. Rose knew that time had run out. She prayed for a distraction—any distraction. A mugger, a drunk, a rapist searching the alleys for a victim—any of them would be better than Cal, and might distract him long enough for her to get away.

Just as she was losing consciousness, Cal stepped back slightly, putting more pressure on her windpipe—and accidentally kicking an alley cat. The animal screamed, startling him. He loosened his grip just enough for Rose to draw in some air.

She took advantage of his distraction, driving her high-heeled shoe into his knee. He let go of her, almost falling. Rose raised her foot, kicking him with all her strength in the groin, then ran, struggling to get enough air.

Gasping for breath, Rose darted around the corner and onto a better-lit street. She could hear footsteps behind her, so she ducked into another alley, diving behind an overflowing garbage can. She huddled there, hidden between the garbage can and a doorway, struggling for breath, trying not to breathe too loudly. Gripping a sharp can lid, she pulled several newspapers over her, hoping that she wouldn't be found, but prepared to fight to the death if necessary. Holding her breath, she waited, frozen with terror, as she heard Cal walking down the alley. He passed close by her hiding place, but didn't see her. At last, he left, assuming that she had gone down another street.

Rose remained where she was for another hour, fearing that Cal would come back, but finally she slipped from her hiding place. Her throat aching and bruised, but thankfully capable of taking in adequate air again, she headed for the boarding house, hoping to avoid meeting anyone.

Everything was quiet when she came inside, but Rose knew that she couldn't stay there. Cal knew where she lived, and he wouldn't hesitate to come after her. She hurried up the stairs, as quietly as she could, and slipped into her room. Pulling her bag out from under her bed, she stuffed as much as she could into it, including the Heart of the Ocean, and then slipped out again, leaving her other possessions behind. She hadn't planned on joining the Shakespeare troupe, but now she knew that it was a good idea, and an easy way to escape. Cal had always found Shakespeare incomprehensible, so it wasn't likely that he would pay attention to the traveling theater troupe. He had only attended Othello tonight to go after her.

Rose rushed through the streets of New York, making her way to the hotel where the acting troupe was staying. The director wasn't happy to have her wake him up in the middle of the night, but he paid for a room for her, telling her to be ready to leave by afternoon tomorrow. All the equipment and props had to be loaded onto the train, so everyone had to be ready to leave hours before the train pulled out. Rose didn't mind. The sooner she left New York, and Cal, behind, the better.


	21. The Actress 1

Chapter Twenty-One

Late the following day, Rose left New York with the rest of the Shakespeare troupe. She had helped load the props and equipment onto the train, always fearful, always watching her back, wondering if Cal was following her. She had almost led herself to believe that he had forgotten about her, but the previous night had taught her that nothing could be further from the truth. She wondered where Alice was, and hoped that Cal had not harmed her.

The cast and crew of the acting troupe board the train around six o'clock that night. It was the first New Year's Eve that Rose could remember that she had not attended some sort of a celebration, but she preferred to be on the train, leaving New York behind, than going to a party. She was too nervous, too frightened to celebrate anyway.

Rose had walked the length and breadth of the train when she had first boarded, fearing that Cal somehow knew where she was and was following her. There was no sign of him, but Rose didn't begin to relax until the train pulled away from the station and headed out of New York, headed north toward Boston. She sat at the window, watching anxiously, until New York had disappeared from view.

Rose spent the evening getting to know her new fellow actors, feeling a pang of regret as she realized that she had not taken the time to say good-bye to any of her friends in New York. Robert was undoubtedly wondering what had happened to her, as were Alice, Frances, and Norman. She hadn't even taken the time to leave a note, fearing that Cal would find it and come after her. She had once again severed her ties as effectively as if she had died. It was doubtful that she would see any of them again, although she might send a letter once she felt certain that Cal had no idea where she was, and was no longer a threat.

Most of the people she would be working with were friendly, especially the men, who were intrigued by the beautiful new leading lady. Many of the women were more reserved, especially those who would have liked her position in the troupe, but one older woman quickly took Rose under her wing, promising to show her the ropes, and the others were more friendly after that. Apparently the woman who had taken up Rose's cause, Ellen Rosenfeld, was something of the social arbitrator for the troupe, and her opinion had the force of law. She was one of the original founders of the company, and had been the leading lady for a good twenty years before she had decided that it was time to let someone else have a chance. Now in her late fifties, she still acted with the troupe, and was an acting coach for all of the newcomers, and sometimes the more experienced actors also sought her advice.

There were only two holdouts. One of the women whose hopes of becoming leading lady had been dashed by Rose looked at her with resentment, avoiding her and making thinly veiled insults when they were introduced. The others had looked at her askance, but Marietta Scott had never been one to care what others thought, and she was more than a little resentful of Rose's position.

The other holdout was the lead actor, Richard McWilliams. He had been with the troupe for fifteen years, since the age of eighteen, and considered himself the main draw. He looked at Rose with contempt, disdaining her because of her lack of experience and her youth. When introduced to her, he had looked her over slowly, insultingly, and then with a contemptuous snort had walked away, leaving Rose feeling like dirt under his heel.

The others had rolled their eyes at the behavior of Marietta and Richard, explaining to Rose that they often acted this way, with any of them, and that Marietta was just jealous because she had a serious interest in Richard and was disappointed that she wouldn't be leading across from him. Many also expressed contempt at Richard's actions toward Rose, and one teenage girl told Rose to use one of the Shakespearean insults the next time Richard looked her over. She had demonstrated, showing Rose how to 'bite her thumb' at him, an insult gleaned from Shakespeare's most famous play, _Romeo and Juliet_. Rose was familiar with the play, but had never thought to borrow an insult from it.

A few of the younger women looked hopeful when Richard expressed such contempt for Rose, hoping that this would give them a better chance with him. Many of them had crushes on him; at least the youngest ones did. Most of the adult women had learned that there were more important things than an attractive face, and made no move to try to attract the leading man's attention. His contempt for everyone but himself was legendary, and Rose thought he was one of the most arrogant, egotistical people she had ever met, excluding perhaps Cal. But Cal was also vicious, unprincipled, and unbalanced, making Richard look comparatively good.

The troupe reached Boston late that night, and Rose, under Ellen's expert tutelage, began rehearsing for her roles, praying that she would be ready when the plays opened on January twenty-first.


	22. The Actress 2

Chapter Twenty-Two

Rose adapted well to the life of a traveling actress. Her high levels of intelligence and creativity, never fully appreciated before, even by herself, came into play as she worked to learn the art that the other members of the troupe had spent years studying.

Rose soon learned that she had a talent for memorization, and quickly came to know the lines for the two plays. Her natural skill as an actress, perfected over the years even without formal training, helped greatly. Ellen encouraged Rose to learn and study her craft, assisting her in the interpretation of her characters. Rose was grateful for Ellen's tutelage, and gave her the respect afforded a truly good teacher.

Rose got along well with most members of the company, although Marietta persisted in making snide remarks, sorely trying Rose's temper on occasion. Richard didn't help matters. His continuing contempt for her sometimes translated itself into their stage performances, with Richard making subtle attempts to discredit Rose and make her look foolish.

His attempts weren't quite so subtle as he thought, and after one reviewer commented on Rose's expansion of Shakespeare's dialogue to include some phrases that had a distinctly twentieth century sound to them, both the director and Ellen decided that it was time to put a stop to things.

One afternoon in mid-February, they called both Richard and Rose into the green room. The other actors were not yet present, and Rose wondered, worriedly, what was going on.

The director, Harry Parsons, spoke first.

"This company has a strong reputation for excellence. Both of you are excellent actors, but your onstage competition has got to stop." He looked at Richard. "Especially yours. You're an experienced actor, with fifteen years of experience with this company, so there's no reason for you to act so threatened by Miss Dawson. She isn't stealing your thunder, but your constant attempts to make her look bad are making this company a laughingstock. This has got to stop, _now_, or we may well be looking for another leading man. Christopher Bloomfield, who you also regard with contempt, might just fit the position."

Richard was furious. "She's the one who's making a laughingstock of the company. 'You poxed son of a bitch' doesn't sound Shakespearean."

Ellen looked at him very calmly. "Miss Dawson has far less experience than you do, in any sort of acting, but especially in Shakespeare. While I do recommend that she study Shakespeare more, both his plays and his sonnets, to get a feel for them, she is doing the best she can. She is one of the most dedicated leading ladies we've had in quite some time, and audiences love the combination of you two, odd expressions not withstanding. You two need to get along, and try to work out your differences. We will not put up with this. And you, Mr. McWilliams, seem to be at the root of the problem. You should know better than to deliberately try to ruin the performance of a fellow performer."

Rose had sat uncomfortably through all of this. She admitted that Richard had often tried to undermine her performance, but she had usually been able to continue with her performance without a hitch. She did have to acknowledge, though, that the "poxed son of a bitch" comment had sounded pretty stupid. Still, she didn't want anyone getting fired on her account.

"Mrs. Rosenfeld," she spoke to Ellen, more formally than she would have under ordinary circumstances. "I'm trying to do my best here, and learn everything. I think that I've actually improved faster because of him."

"Faster or not, this competition can't continue. Either you work out your differences, or one of you has to go. I may be able to arrange a smaller role for one of you if I feel that someone else needs to take your place, but I'd just as soon keep both of you where you are," Mr. Parsons told them. "There's a great deal of chemistry between you, and the audience notices."

Rose's expression showed exactly what she thought of the idea of there being "chemistry" being herself and the boorish leading man. Ellen laughed.

"This doesn't mean you have to like each other, or get along well offstage. You can avoid each other for all we care. But you need to get along on stage, and I know that Richard is the main culprit here. There had better not be any more incidents."

Richard still looked irritated, but he only nodded. Rose agreed, adding that she would study Shakespeare's work to make her performance better. Ellen readily agreed, and even lent Rose several books containing sonnets, as well as a volume of plays.

Rose studied hard, learning many more roles than she was ever likely to hold, and gained an understanding of the Bard's work. Even Richard grudgingly admitted that Rose knew what she was doing, a comment that strangely pleased her. She didn't understand why his opinion mattered, but somehow it did. Maybe, she thought, it was that "chemistry" the director had mentioned.

Rose didn't particularly like Richard, but she found him oddly stimulating. She often responded to his thinly veiled insults with wisecracks of her own, and found that, in a strange way, she actually liked fighting with him. She didn't understand it at all. Certainly, she wasn't attracted to him. Such a thing was unthinkable. She had had her fill of mean, bad-tempered men with Cal, and she was still mourning Jack.

Nevertheless, Rose began deliberately putting herself into situations where she and Richard would be forced to interact. He also sought her out, though neither one really liked the other. The "chemistry" that so pleased the audiences made itself known backstage as well, and more than one person watched them with interest, hoping that something would happen to add to the gossip that many members of the company thrived on.


	23. The Actress 3

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Shakespeare company left Boston on March 20, 1913, two days after Rose's eighteenth birthday. Rose regarded the move with fear and trepidation, dreading their next stop—Philadelphia.

She hadn't set foot in Philadelphia since she had fled her wedding the previous June, and she was terrified that Cal would find her. Some of the newspapers were using her name in their notices regarding the company, and she feared that Cal would once again show up.

Even if Cal didn't read the notices, some of her old acquaintances might be present in the audience, and might recognize her. Rose had dyed her hair back to red in January, and now regretted doing so. Her old acquaintances might not recognize her with black hair.

Furthermore, Rose was still worried about her mother. Thinking of Cal's words sent a chill through her, and although she knew that Nathan Hockley had a great deal of power, and could probably protect her mother against most threats, he might not understand just what his son was capable of. She wondered if Cal's father really did consider himself in love with her mother, or if that was just a figment of Cal's deranged imagination.

She could go and visit her mother, Rose acknowledged to herself. The hotel and the theater that they would be at were only three miles from her mother's home. She was worried about Ruth, and wanted desperately to make sure that she was all right.

At the same time, Rose was afraid to approach her. She remembered Ruth's shocked look when Rose had turned and ran back down the aisle, leaving her bouquet on the floor. She also remembered her mother's strident voice shouting after her, and the sound of her mother and Cal's valet pursuing her through the house. Did her mother yet know Cal for what he was? Or would she try to once again arrange the match between the two?

She didn't have to actually pay her mother a call, Rose thought. Her mother had a telephone, which her father had insisted upon installing back in 1909. And there were telephones available in Philadelphia, as there were in most major cities. While they weren't yet widespread, most of the wealthier people had them, as did many of the higher-class business establishments. Even some of the middle-class households had telephones, though very few of the poorer people could afford them.

Rose knew that she was still undoubtedly considered a member of the upper class, and could probably gain access to a telephone in some business establishment. There might even be one in the hotel where the company would be staying. But she was still afraid to contact her mother.

What if her mother found out where she was? Even if she didn't wish to push the match with Cal, she might tell him where Rose was, or if she told one of her friends, word might get back to Cal. Of course, Rose acknowledged, she didn't have to say where she was. She could say that she was still in New York, or Boston. But the telephone operator might say the name of the city, and then Ruth would have an idea of where to find her.

Rose also feared what she might learn if she attempted to contact her mother. What if Cal had harmed her? What if Cal had been wrong about his father's support of her mother, and her mother was working in some horrible sweatshop somewhere? In that case, she would probably be better off with Rose, but how would Rose find her? What if things were even worse than that, and Ruth was on the streets, living off of garbage or selling herself to survive? The litany of possibilities ran through Rose's mind as the train drew ever closer to Philadelphia.

The Shakespeare troupe arrived in Philadelphia late in the afternoon of March 20, 1913. Rose peered nervously out the window of the train, half-expecting to see Cal or her mother waiting for her, ready to drag her back. Her throat constricted as she stepped down from the train, reminding her frighteningly of that night in December when Cal had tried to kill her. But there was no sign of anyone she knew, except for her fellow actors.

Evelyn, the teenager who had befriended Rose and taught her to "bite her thumb" at Richard, noticed and inquired as to what was going on. Rose just shrugged, unwilling to talk about her worries, or about Cal, or her mother, or about the events that had brought her there. Maybe someday she would be ready to talk about it, but not now, and certainly not with Cal so close by.

Evelyn persisted, so Rose finally told her that she had some old acquaintances in Philadelphia and was worried about what they would think of her performance. Evelyn just shrugged and told Rose that she was one of the best actresses she had seen, and she doubted that anyone would boo her off the stage.

Her own success also worried Rose. Everything seemed almost perfect—a little too perfect. Granted, Marietta still continued to bedevil her, but everyone else was friendly and supportive. She and Richard had even reached a truce of sorts, and although they still exchanged insults, their comments were more in a teasing fashion now, rather than the subtle animosity of earlier.

Her career had taken off faster than Rose had ever thought possible. She had learned enough Shakespeare to improvise if a problem came up, which it rarely did now that Richard was no longer trying to undermine her. The "poxed son of a bitch" comment had largely been forgotten, except by Marietta, who repeated it until it grew tiresome. Audiences cheered her, with some people returning to the theater more than once to see her. She had received flowers, gifts, and invitations, and had more admirers than she knew what to do with, especially young men who would have liked to escort an actress around town, and older, wealthier ones who would have liked her for a mistress.

Rose had little interest in any of them. She was polite, and accepted gifts when she couldn't get out of it, but her answer was always the same—no. She was already acquainted with several of the older men, who had been members of her old social circle. Many of them would have treated her well, and kept her in style, but Rose had grown accustomed to working for herself, and had little desire to be taken care of. She enjoyed her acting career, enjoyed traveling with the company. After Philadelphia, the troupe would be moving on to Pittsburgh, then to Saint Louis, and finally into the west, making their way through such cities as Chicago, Denver, and San Francisco, and Rose wanted to go with them. She was truly "heading for the horizon," and she didn't want to be tied down by anyone—even if it was only as a mistress.

Occasionally, Rose allowed one of the young, unmarried men to escort her to dinner, but she always made it clear that dinner was all that was going to happen. She wasn't about to enter into a cheap, one-night stand with anyone, or even a short-term relationship. If she entered into any kind of relationship with a man, she wanted it to be long-term and meaningful. "Stage-door Johnnies" didn't appeal to her.

Evelyn teased her about this, unable to comprehend why Rose showed so little interest in her many admirers. Evelyn herself had a few admirers, though not so many as Rose, but she appreciated the attention and found it flattering. Rose also found the attention flattering, but she simply didn't want a suitor.

Evelyn frequently allowed one of her admirers to escort her to dinner, or a moving picture, or even the theater, if he could afford it. She seldom saw any one of them more than a few times, but the partings were usually amiable. Superficially, Evelyn resembled Alice in her behavior, but only to a very limited extent. Evelyn was considerably more stable than Alice had been, and respected herself. On the occasions that Evelyn parted in a less than amicable fashion with one of her admirers, it was usually because he had taken offense at her refusal to sleep with him. After one of them had angrily left her at her hotel room door, Evelyn had sighed and confessed to Rose, who was sharing the room with her, that men like that didn't appeal to her either, and she wasn't sleeping with any of them until she had a ring on her finger and a marriage certificate on her wall. She had no intention of marrying until the right man came along, which was why, she told Rose, laughing, that she went out with so many men. How could she find the right one if she didn't look?

Rose had been a little taken aback by Evelyn's openness, although she had already discovered that many theater people were very open. The environment encouraged closeness, and there were few secrets that could be kept in such a close-knit group. Evelyn was open and friendly—most people liked her—but she was also discreet when need be, although Evelyn's idea of appropriate and Rose's were often very different, because of their different upbringings.

Rose's stiff, upper class upbringing had not encouraged openness. Unseemly thoughts were to be kept to oneself, and emotions were not to be shown openly, except for in a very limited fashion. A person could laugh and smile in the correct context, or show sorrow under appropriate circumstances, but most emotional displays were reserved for in private. If one's home life was unhappy, or there were other difficulties, they were kept behind closed doors. The great wealth of members of the upper class brought privilege and opportunities that other members of American society didn't have, but it also encouraged a certain amount of social isolation.

In stark contrast to Rose's upbringing, Evelyn had grown up in the theater. Theater people, too, had sets of social rules and mores, but it was a more open, closely-knit society, especially in stable groups such as the Shakespeare company. It was difficult to keep secrets from people that one saw constantly, and if something happened, it was almost certain to be known about by everyone within a short time. Even in less closely-knit groups, or in the far less stable world of motion picture production, the greater openness persisted.

Evelyn had been on the stage since she was three years old. Her parents were both actors, and even after her mother had died when Evelyn was ten years old, her father had continued with his career, and encouraged Evelyn in hers. Evelyn had spent her life on the road, and now, at sixteen, considered the idea of settling down a romantic but far-fetched idea. She told Rose that maybe if she found a good man who wasn't of the theater or any other sort of job that required traveling, she might settle down, but she hadn't found the right one yet, so she was content to keep moving. Her father encouraged her independence, stating, in an unusual display of respect for a man of his time, that Evelyn had a good head on her shoulders and would do well at whatever she put her mind to.

Rose was impressed; most of the men she had ever known treated women with a condescending air. She remembered how quickly Cal and Colonel Gracie had believed her story about looking at the propellers—as if a woman who had traveled on numerous ships in her life didn't know better—and realized that such an attitude was rare indeed. Jack had shown respect for her intelligence, and so had Robert, but they were exceptions. Of course, she acknowledged, society taught people that women were inferior—it was why women were unable to vote in most states—and some women encouraged the idea. Unfortunately, since many men were already convinced of female inferiority, the actions of women who truly were dependent upon men, or who pretended to be, or simply thought that they were, convinced the men of their own prejudices.

Rose took to the stage in Philadelphia as well as she had taken to the stages in New York and Boston, in spite of her fears of being found by Cal. She wasn't worried that the upper class men she had rejected would tell Cal about her—most of them didn't want to admit to being rejected—but she still feared that other members of her old social circle would see her on stage and talk about her. Everything was going so well that Rose feared that something would happen to spoil it all, and in the end, she reluctantly decided against trying to contact her mother.


	24. The Actress 4

Chapter Twenty-Four

April 10, 1913

The last night in Philadelphia brought an unwanted, unwelcome guest for Rose. All day she had been quiet, lost in thought. Evelyn had tried to draw her out, but Rose was occupied with her memories of this same day a year earlier—the day that she had boarded the Titanic, and her life had changed forever.

When she had boarded the ship, she had felt as though she was being brought back to America in chains. Now, those chains were broken, as surely as the chains of Jack's handcuffs had been severed by the ax. She was free now, but she would never forget her beginnings.

That night, after their last performance in Philadelphia—a performance of Hamlet—Rose returned to her dressing room to find Dennis Rivers, Cal's valet, waiting for her. Rose was shocked, and angry, wondering who had let him in. Recalling that Melanie, the woman who usually helped her with her hair and makeup, had winked and giggled when Rose had walked by, she realized that Melanie had mistaken Rivers for an old acquaintance of Rose's, a guise he had sometimes followed her under before she had left Cal.

Rose immediately left the room, but Rivers followed her. Suddenly wishing that her dressing room was closer to the others, Rose had tried to duck away amongst the piles of old props and costumes, but he followed her, grabbing her arm and insisting that he needed to speak with her.

Rose felt a chill, listening to his voice—very calm, very quiet, very controlled, and very, very menacing. Rivers was worse than Lovejoy had been, but he was just the sort of person that Cal would want guarding him—the sort who could frighten people with a look, or a word. Rose had little doubt that Rivers was also armed, but he seldom had to draw a gun in defense of his employer, since few people wanted to cross him in the first place.

Rivers had always frightened Rose, though she had never admitted it. Instead, she had always snapped back at him, or turned her head, refusing to look at him. Rivers thrived on people's attention; like many bullies, he was basically insecure, and enjoyed using his position to intimidate others.

Now, Rose glared at him. "What do you want?" she asked, trying to pull away.

Rivers tightened his grip on her arm. "Mr. Hockley has requested an audience with you."

Rose's heart rate increased, pounding with fright. "No."

"He has insisted."

"That's just too damned bad. I don't want to see him." Rose's voice showed more bravado than she felt.

"Mr. Hockley wants to meet you for a late dinner. He sent me to pick you up."

"Tell him to find someone else to share his dinner with. I'm not coming."

"Miss DeWitt Bukater—"

"Miss Dawson."

"Mr. Hockley is your fiancé. He has the right to share a meal with you."

"He's not my fiancé. I made that perfectly clear the day I left him at the altar."

"Ah, yes. You abandoned him in front of five hundred members of Philadelphia society. Quite humiliating."

"I've no doubt he got over it."

"He still wants you back. And you'd be wise to meet him, especially since your lover seems to have abandoned you."

Rose was confused. "What lover?"

"The one who's name you've taken. Jack Dawson."

At that, Rose began to struggle in earnest. Raising her free hand, she slapped Rivers as hard as she could. "He'd dead, you idiot! He didn't abandon me!" She couldn't understand why she was even telling him this. She hadn't mentioned Jack to anyone else. Maybe it was to correct him; she couldn't let him undermine Jack's memory. Death was not abandonment.

Rivers grabbed Rose's other wrist. "Either way, you're a woman alone. You need what Mr. Hockley can provide."

Rose's expression showed just what she thought of that idea. She could take care of herself. And even if she couldn't, she'd be better off alone than with Cal. She could still feel his hand closing around her throat, and she suspected that if she went to him now, she probably wouldn't live to see another sunrise.

"Let go of me." Rose spoke in a voice just as calm and dangerous as Rivers'. She would not go with him.

"I can't do that. I have an obligation to bring you to Mr. Hockley, whether you like it or not."

Rose decided to try reasoning with him. Rivers had a mean streak, but he wasn't crazy. Not like Cal.

"Just tell him you couldn't find me. Tell him I left the theater right after the show and you couldn't find out where I'd gone."

"I'm sorry, but that's not acceptable. You're coming with me."

"No, I'm not. Leave me alone."

He shook his head. "Mr. Hockley has told me about the way that you've been living. I believe that it's in the best interest of both of you if you come with me tonight."

Rose could just imagine what Cal had told him. Any story would do, and Rivers was one of those individuals who was loyal to a fault. Rose wasn't sure if Rivers really believed that what he was doing was right, or if he was acting out of loyalty to his employer. Either way, she wasn't going with him.

"Let go of me, now."

Rivers didn't reply. Gripping her arms tighter, he headed for the back exit.

Rose opened her mouth to scream, but he let go of one of her arms and clapped a hand over her mouth. Rose's free hand immediately curled into claws as she went for his eyes, Alice's lessons in self-defense taking over.

He swore and let go of her. Rose turned to run, but he grabbed her arm again.

"Let go of me!" Rose's voice was high-pitched with panic.

"I'd suggest you do as she says." Both Rose and Rivers turned, startled, as Richard stepped into the hallway.

"My employer has requested an audience with her," Rivers told him, putting on his most menacing voice.

"Obviously, she isn't interested." Richard wasn't intimidated. He had spent too many years around actors who portrayed menacing characters with great skill to be frightened by the ploy.

"Mr. Hockley is one of the wealthiest, most influential individuals in this city. He could make or break her career."

Richard was unimpressed. "She's been making her own career up until now, and we're leaving Philadelphia tomorrow morning. Mr. Hockley's influence is of no importance."

"Do you know who Mr. Caledon Hockley is?"

"No. Should I?"

Rose almost laughed. Cal would be furious if he could hear Richard's blasé tone of voice.

"Mr. Hockley is her fiancé."

"He is not!" Rose twisted from Rivers' grip. "Tell Mr. Hockley that he can shove it up his—" She stopped, determined not to sink to Rivers' level. "—nose," she finished, giving him her most insipid smile.

"I think you'd better leave." Richard spoke to Rivers in an equally menacing tone. "Tell Mr. Hockley that Miss Dawson is otherwise occupied."

"Her name is Miss DeWitt Bukater."

Richard shrugged. "A lot of actresses take stage names, especially if their real names are a mouthful. I don't care what she calls herself. However..." He paused. "You are obviously unwelcome, so it is in your best interest to leave. Immediately. There are plenty of police around here to direct traffic and the like. I'm sure one of them would be more than happy to remove you from the premises, your employer be damned."

Rivers could see that Richard meant what he said, and the scene had drawn a couple of crew members who were standing back, but certainly ready to step in at a moment's notice. Slowly, he backed away.

"I will relay your message to Mr. Hockley," he said, reaching for the door handle.

"Good. See that you do." Richard nodded curtly to him. Rivers opened the door and left, scurrying into the alleyway.

Rose was staring at Richard in shock. They had come to a truce of sorts, but she had never expected him to come to her defense. "Th-thank you," she stammered, still shaken by what had happened.

"Are you all right?" he asked her. She looked pale.

"I'm fine," she assured him, even as she felt her knees buckle and blackness edge around her consciousness. She had been more frightened than she cared to admit, but she refused to faint. She wasn't a fainter. She had never fainted in her life, except for the time when she had been rescued from the sea, and then she had been half-frozen.

Rose leaned against the wall, willing the blackness away. "I'm fine," she repeated, stepping away from the wall. The world went black.

Someone waved smelling salts under Rose's nose, and she stirred, opening her eyes. Melanie was looking at her with concern, still holding the smelling salts.

Rose looked around. She was lying on the floor of her dressing room. Melanie offered her a glass of water, and as Rose took it, she saw Richard leaning indolently against the door.

"You going to live?" he asked her, stepping closer.

Rose sat up, noting that someone had unbuttoned her dress and loosened her corset. Pulling the edges of her dress together, she nodded. "I think so."

"I guess I pulled your laces a little too tight," Melanie apologized. "You don't wear a corset all the time, so you're not used to them this tight."

Richard raised an eyebrow in interest at that bit of information. Rose scowled, reminding herself to find Melanie some unpleasant work to do. Melanie frequently spoke before she thought.

"You're right, it was too tight," Rose told her, unwilling to talk about what had happened. Thinking quickly, she told Melanie, "After this, don't let any 'admirers' into my dressing room."

"He said he was an old friend."

"Even then." Especially then, Rose thought. She had little desire to see her "old friends". "Just tell them to leave me a note, and I'll see them later. I really don't want gentlemen callers in my dressing room anyway."

"Right." Melanie looked a bit embarrassed, realizing that she hadn't even thought about Rose's reaction. She had stepped outside for a moment to smoke—one of her few vices—and had been approached by the well-dressed gentleman who claimed to be an old friend of Miss Dawson's. Melanie had assumed that Rose would be pleased to see an old acquaintance, so she had let him in. Apparently Rose wasn't so pleased.

Richard nodded to Rose, stepping outside and closing the door so Rose could change. Melanie scurried to find some cold cream and a hairbrush for Rose.

After Rose had changed into her usual simple dress—without the corset—and removed her stage makeup, she dismissed Melanie. Melanie hurried away, still embarrassed about letting a gentleman caller into Rose's dressing room. Rose sat alone in front of her mirror for several minutes, staring at her reflection. She had come a long way since the day she boarded the Titanic, but sometimes she felt as though her old world was lying in wait, ready to drag her back. The troupe's next stop was Pittsburgh, and after that they would be heading west. Rose hoped that she could finally leave her old life behind completely.

Richard was waiting for her when she left the dressing room. "How about dinner?" he asked her, rising from the rickety chair that he had been sitting on, reading a newspaper.

Rose really just wanted to return to her hotel room, eat a quick room service meal, and go to sleep. She shook her head. "I'm kind of tired."

"Just a quick dinner. We can go to that restaurant next to the hotel. It'll be faster than room service," he told her, as though reading her mind.

Rose sighed tiredly. "All right."

"Don't make it sound like such a chore."

"Sorry. It's been a long night."

"I noticed." They walked along in silence for a while, until Richard asked, "So, you were engaged to a member of high society?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Your visitor certainly seemed to think so."

"You know who Caledon Hockley is, then."

"Of course. He's in the papers often enough. I just wanted to get that fellow's goat."

"I'd rather not talk about him."

"Who? Hockley or his servant?"

"Either of them."

Richard shrugged, noting the stubborn set of Rose's jaw. She wasn't going to volunteer anything.

"Who's Jack Dawson?"

"Don't you ever quit?!" Rose turned on him, eyes blazing.

"Quit what?"

"Tormenting me!"

"It was just a question."

"Don't...ask...me...questions." Rose spoke slowly and deliberately. She had already confronted her past enough tonight. She didn't need Richard asking more questions.

"Fine. I think I've got the story anyway. You abandoned Hockley at the altar for this Dawson fellow, who died some time after that. You took his name and became an actress."

"Good night. I'm leaving." Rose had had enough of Richard for one night. She sped up, walking ahead of him.

"Rose, wait. I'm sorry."

Rose turned, glaring at him. She didn't believe his apology, and she didn't want it.

"Leave me alone."

"Look, I won't talk about it anymore. We'll just talk about things that have happened since you joined the company."

Rose shook her head. "I'm tired. I'm going back to the hotel now."

"It'll be cheaper to eat at the restaurant."

"Richard, what part of 'no' don't you understand?"

"Fine. Great. Go on up. Just remember that the train leaves at ten tomorrow."

"I won't forget." Rose clapped a hand over her stomach, embarrassed, as it growled hungrily. She hadn't eaten since noon, and it was eleven o'clock now.

"You're sure you don't want dinner?"

Rose sighed. "Fine. Let's get dinner. But we won't talk about what happened tonight, or about my past. Got it?"

Richard gave her a half-mocking salute. "Aye, aye, captain."

Rose scowled at him and tossed her head, surprised that she wasn't more offended. But she was learning to tolerate Richard, and for some strange reason, she actually liked him.


	25. The Actress 5

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Shakespeare company left Philadelphia the following morning. Rose watched the city disappear with a sense of relief, and of regret. Part of her wished that she had taken the time to contact her mother, while another part told her that it would have been a foolish idea. Cal had almost gotten his hands on her anyway, and she was lucky that Richard had stepped in.

Rose was still a bit worried when they reached Pittsburgh—after all, Cal did have mills there—but it still felt safer than Philadelphia. At least it was a different city.

The troupe was scheduled to begin performances in Pittsburgh on April sixteenth. They spent the few extra days rehearsing, preparing to face the audience from a new stage.

Rose was glad for the delay for another reason—it was a year since she had sailed on the Titanic, since she had met Jack, and since the Titanic sank—and the anniversary caused her more emotional upheaval than she expected. She had grown and changed a lot in the past year, and was no longer the spoiled, naive rich girl that she had once been, but the anniversary, and the subsequent explosion of newspaper headlines commemorating it, brought back a lot of memories. Evelyn had learned a song about the sinking, which she sang on the train to Pittsburgh, unaware of how it was affecting Rose.

Rose had felt a sense of shock when she had first heard the song, but soon formed the opinion that it was a good way to remember those who had died on the ship. She had quickly memorized the lyrics of the song, entitled The Titanic (It Was Sad When That Great Ship Went Down), and sang along with Evelyn, who commented that Rose seemed to inject just the right amount of sadness into the song, almost as though she had been there, or knew someone who had been. Rose just shrugged, unwilling to talk about the experience.

When the troupe reached Pittsburgh, a pleasant surprise awaited them. For the four weeks that they would be in Pittsburgh, the management had rented private rooms for each company member in a small, inexpensive hotel. While less luxurious than their usual accommodations—there wasn't any room service, and they had to clean their own rooms and change their own sheets for the duration of their stay—at least they had more privacy than usual.

Rose was grateful for the greater privacy. While she didn't mind sharing a room with Evelyn, she was finding the first anniversary of the Titanic's sinking difficult to deal with, and was glad to be alone.

Rose went to the rehearsals, and acted with her usual enthusiasm and skill, but after the rehearsals were over she wanted only to retreat to her own room and think about the past. Evelyn and Richard encouraged her to accompany them to various places in the city, and Rose did for the first three days in Pittsburgh, accompanying Evelyn to the moving pictures on April twelfth, and accompanying Richard to dinner on April eleventh and thirteenth. But on April fourteenth, she refused to go anywhere, and after rehearsals were done, she retreated to her room, reliving in her mind every moment of that last night on Titanic, from "flying" with Jack on the bow, to the drawing, to the Renault, and finally the horrible moment when the ship had struck the iceberg, followed by Cal's attempt to frame Jack, her rescue of him, the moment that she had jumped from the lifeboat to be with Jack, and the ship's final plunge into the sea.

Rose sat up all night, watching the clock and remembering each moment as it had happened a year earlier. The water had been so cold that night; she hadn't thought that she would survive. But she had, and instead Jack had died, frozen to death in the frigid waters of the North Atlantic. She remembered her frantic attempts to wake him up, and then letting go of his hand and watching him sink into the icy waters. The next morning, Cal had found her on board the Carpathia, and she had been trapped in her old life again, until she had summoned the courage to run away on her wedding day, and begin a new life.

The sun was rising on the morning of April 15, 1913 when Rose came to a decision. She would never forget Jack, but he was gone. He wasn't coming back, and she could spend her whole life mourning, and missing out on the joys of life, or she could move on, and experience everything that life had offer. That morning, at sunrise, Rose said a silent good-bye to Jack. Part of her would always love him, but she was alive, and she needed to move on, to live.

Evelyn commented upon the change in Rose. Rose had always had a lot of enthusiasm for life, but it had always been tinged with a bit of sadness, which had grown more pronounced over the past few days. Now, Rose seemed to be at peace with life, and with herself. She laughed more freely, and had more of a spring in her step. The sadness that had always been just below the surface was gone, replaced by an enthusiasm for the joys and pleasures of life.

Rose had finally admitted to herself that, yes, she was attracted to Richard. She didn't love him, of that she was certain, but the "chemistry" that the director had noted was genuine, and, despite their frequent arguments and their exchanges of insults, there was a mutual attraction that neither could deny.

After the first performance in Pittsburgh, of _As You Like It_, Rose allowed Richard to escort her to dinner to celebrate. The performance had been a resounding success, with a packed theater and the audience demanding eight curtain calls. Rose had received several bouquets of flowers, some of which she generously tossed to members of the audience, before finally retreating backstage.

Richard took her to one of the pricier restaurants in Pittsburgh, earning the glares of several members of the upper class who did not feel that common actors belonged in their midst. Rose ignored the glares—she had long since stopped worrying about what high society thought—and concentrated upon enjoying her dinner. She had been to this restaurant before, with Cal, but it was far more pleasant with Richard, even though he couldn't afford the more expensive entrees.

Rose had a good idea of how Richard wanted to end the evening, and she intended to let it happen, not in payment, and not out of gratitude, but because she wanted to. She had no intention of ever playing the whore again, but entering into an affair because she wanted to was a different matter entirely.

Rose was a little nervous, and drank more wine than usual, but at the end of the evening, when she followed Richard to his hotel room, she did not regret doing so. She didn't delude herself into believing that Richard loved her, or that she loved him, but there was a mutual attraction between them that translated itself into a lusty affair.


	26. The Actress 6

Chapter Twenty-Six

Rose felt more alive than she had in a long time. Although she still sensed that something was missing—probably the deep sense of devotion and trust that came with a stable, loving relationship—she persisted in her affair with Richard, shallow though it was.

Rose had only enjoyed being with a man once before—with Jack—and while her relationship with Richard was hardly on the same level as her relationship with Jack had been, it was what she needed at this point. She still wasn't ready for another serious relationship, but one that was based purely on lust was satisfactory for the time being.

Of course, the affair did not go unnoticed by the other members of the troupe. At first, people paid little attention, as Rose would slip quietly into Richard's room late at night. The fact that he was right across the hall from her made it even easier. However, people frequently noticed her leaving Richard's room in the morning, and Ellen was the first to notice.

She quietly took Rose aside one morning and asked if she was sure that she knew what she was doing. Ellen wasn't a prude—she had had her share of indiscretions in her life—but she knew the hazards of carrying on an affair. Aside from the obvious dangers—unwanted pregnancy, venereal disease—there was also the problem of emotional entanglement; especially if the people involved in the affair had different ideas of how the other felt. Richard was notorious for pursuing a girl for a short time, and then dropping her as soon as someone more interesting presented herself.

Rose wasn't surprised by Richard's reputation—she had been with the troupe for several months—but she didn't think there was much danger of emotional entanglement. Their relationship was based purely on lust, nothing more, and Rose really didn't want it to go any farther. As to the physical hazards, Rose assured Ellen that she knew what she was doing. Rose was no longer the naive girl she had been a year earlier, and Alice had happily told Rose everything she knew about preventing pregnancy, a considerable amount. Rose had insisted upon contraceptives from the start, whether Richard liked it or not, and she had experimented with different methods until she found one that she was comfortable with and that she had a fair amount of confidence would work. She had no intention of becoming pregnant again, and she had combined several things that Alice had mentioned to protect herself. She had never used contraceptives before, but they seemed to work, as she never conceived.

It wasn't long before everyone knew what was going on. Evelyn pretended to be shocked, then giggled, having seen this sort of thing many times in the open society of the theater. Some people gossiped for a short time, but soon found new things to talk about. Affairs were common enough that they didn't cause a great scandal. Only Marietta took offense.

From the start, Marietta had disliked Rose. She had wanted the position of leading lady for herself, and considered Rose to have usurped what was rightfully hers. Moreover, Marietta had a serious and long-standing interest in Richard, and felt that Rose was standing between them. Richard had occasionally paid attention to Marietta, but she wanted his attention exclusively for herself, despite the fact that he never stayed true to any woman, including Rose.

Rose tried to ignore Marietta, but it was difficult. Marietta had a talent for making cutting comments that sorely tried Rose's temper, and she was very persistent. She often made unpleasant comments to Rose, just loud enough for Rose to hear. If she behaved in an insulting fashion in front of others, they usually jumped to Rose's defense, but Marietta knew exactly how to irritate Rose. For her part, Rose tried to ignore her, relying strongly upon the training she had received as a member of the upper class, which did not allow for a lady to be rude or insulting, but it was hard, and she occasionally found herself making cutting comments of her own, which only made the situation worse.

Despite Marietta's interference, Rose and Richard continued their affair, and after they left Pittsburgh and traveled to St. Louis, they began openly sharing a hotel room. Marietta grumbled, but the other members of the troupe turned a blind eye. Neither Rose nor Richard let it get in the way of their work, nor did they let it cause problems with other members of the company, so people left them alone.

Rose worried initially that some nosy newspaper reporter would catch on to the affair and treat it as a scandal, but the troupe moved around so much that neither she nor Richard ever became really well-known in any one place, despite the use of their names in advertisements, and so many people already considered actors to be immoral that it would not have shocked them to know that an affair was in progress between two minor theater performers, especially in cities with numerous theaters and actors. Moreover, most members of the troupe were discreet about things that happened within the company, and the affair never made its way into the newspapers. The era of the actor as a major celebrity was still in the future, and only a few theater actors ever received the kind of notoriety afforded film actors.

As the summer progressed, the Shakespeare company made its way further west, leaving St. Louis in late June and heading for Chicago, where they stayed for two months, adding a third play, King Lear, to their repertoire, and finally heading for Denver on the first day of September, 1913.


	27. The Actress 7

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The company's stay in Denver brought another unexpected, but this time far more welcome, visitor for Rose. The troupe had been performing in Denver since September sixth, and was scheduled to move on to San Francisco on October twelfth.

Rose had grown more and more relaxed as they traveled farther west, away from her old world and her old acquaintances. Her relationship with Richard had begun to stagnate, and she had caught him looking speculatively at other women, but for some reason she really didn't mind. She was beginning to grow bored with the relationship herself, and there had never been much between them in the first place.

Early in October, a week before they were scheduled to leave, Melanie came rushing into Rose's dressing room shortly after the performance ended.

Rose jumped, startled; Melanie had forgotten to knock. The hairdresser didn't notice; she was too excited over Rose's latest visitor.

"There's someone here to see you, Rose," she told her, almost dancing with excitement.

Rose sighed. There was usually someone there to visit her after the show. She welcomed her visitors, but she didn't get excited over them. Melanie usually didn't either.

"Who is it?" she asked, wiping the makeup off her face.

Melanie paused, suddenly flustered. "I forgot her name," she told Rose, "but she's a rich lady who says she knows you."

A rich lady who knew her? Rose looked up, suddenly alarmed. The last visitor she'd had who knew her had tried to drag her back to Cal. Of course, the chances of Cal being in Denver now were slim, but still...

"What did she look like?" Rose asked, wondering who in Denver would know her, especially since she'd changed her name.

"She's kind of heavy-set, with brown hair. And she has a strange accent, too. Not cultured like most rich people. She talks more like a regular person."

Rose frowned, thinking. The only person she knew of who matched that description was Molly Brown, and she didn't know her that well. Her mother had held a rather low opinion of Molly, since she was 'new money', and Rose had only spoken to her a few times, on the Titanic. Still, Rose knew that Molly's husband had made his fortune in the west, so it was possible that she was in Denver.

"Tell her I'll be out in a few minutes," Rose told Melanie, standing and reaching for her dress. Melanie nodded, and, after hanging up Rose's costume, hurried out.

Rose slipped into her dress, hoping that she wasn't making a mistake in agreeing to greet this visitor. She was fairly certain that if her visitor was indeed Molly, she wouldn't report Rose's whereabouts to Cal; she hadn't seemed to have had a terribly high opinion of Cal in the first place. But if it was someone else...

Rose tried to put her concerns out of her mind. The troupe was moving on in another week; heading for California. Rose was looking forward to that—she had never been to California, and Jack's descriptions had made her want to see it. True, they were going to San Francisco, not Los Angeles, but Rose still looked forward to the move. In addition to wanting to see California, it would be even farther from her old life.

Rose took one last look at herself in the mirror, hoping that she looked presentable, before leaving the dressing room to greet her guest.

Several people were waiting for her—two young male admirers, an eight-year-old girl who wanted her autograph, the girl's father, and Rose's wealthy guest, who was indeed Molly Brown.

Rose talked to the other visitors first, autographing the girl's play program and politely rebuffing the young men before turning to Molly.

"Well, Rose," Molly spoke to her. "I see you've been makin' quite a name for yourself."

Rose nodded, still a bit uncomfortable. She was still trying to break with her old life, and the appearance of old acquaintances didn't make that any easier.

Molly noticed Rose's discomfort. "You got some place we can sit down and chat, darlin'? I ain't seen you since the Titanic sank."

Rose nodded. "There's a couple of chairs in my dressing room."

"Your own dressin' room. You are doin' well," Molly commented as they walked backstage.

Rose was relieved to find that Melanie had already left. She got along well enough with her, but Melanie was a bit of a gossip, and Rose didn't want her hanging around.

As Rose and Molly made themselves comfortable, Molly asked Rose, "So what have you been up to since you got off the Carpathia? Besides leavin' Cal at the altar and becomin' an actress, that is."

"How did you know I left Cal?"

"It was in the society columns of newspapers all over the country. You were famous until the scandal wore off."

Alice had been right; Cal could have found Rose anywhere, from the amount of publicity. "He wasn't very happy," Rose replied.

"I'd imagine. He didn't strike me as the sort who took rejection well."

_Especially not in front of five hundred members of Philadelphia society,_ Rose thought. To say that he was unhappy with her was an understatement.

"How did you know that I was here?"

"I saw your picture in a theater review in the newspaper. I'd seen some notices before, but your new name threw me off. There was no mistakin' that picture, though."

"Just so long as Cal stays away, I'm happy."

"I don't think you two were exactly a match made in heaven," Molly agreed. "That one day on the Titanic, at lunch, you were tryin' to bedevil him, weren't you?"

Rose remembered well. "He didn't like my reading material, or my smoking."

"Do you still smoke?" Rose didn't smell of cigarettes like most smokers did.

"No. I mainly did that to annoy him and Mother. If they hadn't made such a fuss, I probably wouldn't have done it."

"It's sounds like you've had an interestin' time since the Titanic. What have you been up to?"

Rose hesitated; there were a lot of things she wasn't willing to talk about. She had never told anyone about how Cal had abused her, or about her miscarriage, or about Cal's attempt to murder her in the alley in New York, and she wasn't going to start now. Instead, she gave Molly an abbreviated version of what she had done since fleeing her wedding. She didn't say anything about why she left Cal, only that she ran off in the middle of her wedding and took the first train to New York City. Molly roared with laughter at Rose's description of spending the night in a 'house of assignation', and her story about learning to buy food and cook for herself. Rose had been as bad a cook as Robert when she first started. Rose told Molly about her friends in New York City, leaving out the part about Alice's troubles, and how she had auditioned for the Shakespeare troupe and become a leading lady, even without much acting experience. She spoke about traveling with the theater troupe, leaving out the fact that the reason she'd left was because Cal had tried to kill her. She also left out her affair with Richard, which was nearly over anyway.

Molly was impressed with Rose's story, and the way she had created a life for herself, but she still had one question. "What happened to Jack?"

Rose winced. She hadn't wanted to talk about Jack; despite her efforts to move on, she still missed him. She wondered, sometimes, how she could still feel so strongly about someone she had only known for three days, but they had had something special. She had said a silent good-bye to him the previous April, but he still lingered in her mind.

"He's dead, Molly. He died on the Titanic."

Molly's face showed her sympathy. Rose went on, talking about what had happened for the first time.

"Cal put me into a lifeboat, but I jumped back out to be with Jack. Cal was furious, and tried to shoot us, but we escaped unharmed. We almost drowned in a flooded portion of the ship before we finally escaped. As we were running through the ship, trying to find our way out, Mr. Andrews gave me his lifebelt. Later, just before the ship split in half, Jack and I were clinging to the stern railing, where we first met." Rose didn't mention that their first meeting had been as a result of her suicide attempt. "When the ship split in half, I hoped for a minute that we were saved, but then it started to tilt up again. Jack pulled me over the railing, and we held onto it until the ship went down." Rose was speaking faster and faster as the memories flew through her mind. "We were separated in the water, and I was swimming around trying to find him when someone pushed me under. I screamed for Jack, and after a minute he was there. He got me away from the man who almost drowned me, and we found a piece of wood, but there was only enough space for one of us. I climbed up on the piece of wood, and Jack stayed in the water. He made me promise to survive, and I thought he would be all right, but when the boat came back, and I tried to wake him up, he didn't respond. He'd frozen to death. I let him go, and watched him sink into the water for a moment before I got off the piece of wood and got a whistle that had belonged to a dead officer. I was rescued, and the next thing I knew, the Carpathia was there to rescue the survivors. I stayed in steerage for about two hours before Cal found me and brought me back to first class."

"Slow down, darlin'. Take a deep breath."

Rose nodded and did as she said. "Before I knew it, it was my wedding day. I got about two-thirds of the way down the aisle before I turned and ran away. I've only been back to Philadelphia once since, and that was to appear on stage."

"And you still miss Jack, don't you?"

Rose nodded. "Yes. It seems strange, because I only knew him three days, but..."

"But he became an important part of your life in that time."

"Exactly." Molly was the first one who had comprehended what Jack had meant to her. "I don't think I'll ever forget him."

"I'm sure you won't, but you do seem to have gone on with life. You don't seem unhappy."

Rose half-smiled. It was true, she liked her new life, liked traveling and appearing on stage, and being admired. She had a number of good friends, and she was doing many of the things she had dreamed of. She wanted more out of life eventually, of course, but for now she enjoyed being an actress, enjoyed being in the company of friends and seeing parts of the country that members of her old social class would have turned up their noses at. And, except for when the memories came on and overwhelmed her, she was content.

"Have you had dinner yet, darlin'?" Molly asked her, startling her out of her reverie.

"Actually, no."

"I know a nice little place not far from here that won't object to bein' patronized by an actress. How about dinner?"

Rose thought for a moment, then agreed. "Sure. I'd like that."

"Great. And you can tell me more about the life of an actress."

Rose smiled and followed Molly out to her car.


	28. The Actress 8

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Shakespeare company left Denver on October twelfth and headed for San Francisco, arriving on October fourteenth. Their stay in San Francisco was to be the longest of any city that year—over two months, with the company scheduled to split up for a month starting December eighteenth, and reuniting in Saint Louis on January eighteenth.

San Francisco was one of the nation's newer major cities, having only been established as a large city for about sixty-four years, and its newness was still visible. In addition, it had been partially burned several times in the early years, and partially destroyed by the earthquake some seven years earlier.

The theater that the troupe was to perform in had been built about two years after the earthquake, and still maintained its aura of newness. It was still bright and well cared for, not weathered and well used as some of the theaters that members of the troupe were accustomed to.

The only problem they found was that there were only two dressing rooms. The theater had originally been designed with community productions in mind, and no one had thought of the possibility that large numbers of professionals, with their higher expectations, would be using it, and it was the first time the Shakespeare troupe had been in San Francisco. The dressing rooms were large enough, and for the most part the "stars" didn't object to sharing with others, but the sheer number of people, combined with the natural tension brought about by stage fright, sometimes made the close quarters uncomfortable.

Rose didn't usually mind sharing space with others, but facing a new audience on a new stage made her nervous, and having to deal with Marietta immediately before the show didn't help. Marietta had taken to taunting Rose over her break-up with Richard—which had actually been amiable enough; there had been no professional problems between them after they went their separate ways. Marietta, however, still resented Rose's presence, and often went out of her way to antagonize her.

Rose frequently had to restrain herself from responding to Marietta's taunts, knowing that responding would only make things worse. Marietta was looking for a reaction, and on the occasions when Rose lost her temper and snapped back, she was pleased, and quickly came up with more ways to bedevil Rose. Evelyn commented that what Marietta needed was a good kick in the backside, but Rose resisted the desire to lash out at her nemesis. Marietta would undoubtedly find a way to make it appear that Rose had unjustifiably attacked her.

Once the plays were in production, and she had grown accustomed to the new stage, Rose took the time to try to find her old friend Deborah Hill. She wasn't sure where to look for her, since she hadn't heard from her in over seven years, but she wanted to find out what had happened to her. It was possible that the Hills were no longer living in San Francisco, or that Deborah had married or left the area, or that she had died, but Rose wanted to find out for sure what had happened, if she could.

One Monday late in October—her day off—Rose made her way to a local library that had a collection of city directories going back several years. After searching through several of them, as well as a stack of old newspapers, Rose discovered that the Hills had left San Francisco in May of 1906 and returned just the year before, in August of 1912. She didn't know where they'd been in the meantime, but she did find an address.

That afternoon, Rose took the trolley to one of the richer sections of San Francisco. She was a bit nervous about seeing them; she hadn't seen either Deborah or her family since 1905, and she hadn't even set foot in a first class neighborhood since she had left home in 1912.

Rose strolled slowly through the streets of expensive houses, searching for the Hill's home. She had dressed in her best clothes—one of the silk day dresses she had taken when she left Philadelphia—but she knew that she wouldn't quite fit in. The dress was out of style, somewhat worn, and Rose had taken out the seams a little so that it could be worn without a corset. Wearing a corset onstage was bad enough; she wasn't going to squeeze herself into one of the torturous undergarments on her time off.

She finally found the Hill mansion, a large, three-story building with freshly painted woodwork. A gardener was out front, working in a beautifully laid out flower garden. He glanced at her as she walked up to the front door, then went back to pruning some rosebushes.

Rose rang the doorbell and waited until a short, heavy-set woman in a maid's uniform came to the door. "Can I help you?" the housekeeper asked, eyeing Rose's worn dress and sturdy shoes.

"Is Mr. or Mrs. Hill home, or Deborah?" she asked, trying to act in the manner of members of the upper class.

"Mrs. Hill is at home," the housekeeper replied. "Mr. Hill is at the office, and Miss Deborah was married in September and lives two blocks from here. May I say who's calling?"

So Deborah was still around. "Tell Mrs. Hill that Rose DeWitt Bukater is here." It felt odd, using her old name, but Mrs. Hill probably wouldn't recognize Rose Dawson.

The housekeeper closed the door, leaving Rose waiting outside. She sat down on a bench near the door, giving her tired feet a rest. A few minutes later, the housekeeper returned and beckoned to her.

"Mrs. Hill will see you now."

Rose followed her into the house. The interior of the mansion was cheerfully decorated, with portraits, paintings, and photographs gracing several walls. Rose recognized one painting by Degas, and another by Picasso. Apparently the Hills thought more of his work than Cal had.

Mrs. Hill was sitting in a chair in the parlor, sewing some intricate beadwork onto a gown. Rose smiled, remembering how Deborah's mother had made a hobby out of sewing and designing clothes when she and Deborah had been children. Each girl had sported some beautifully made dresses, courtesy of Belinda Hill's favorite activity.

Mrs. Hill set her work aside as Rose entered the room, coming to greet her. She looked at her for a moment, taking in Rose's worn clothing, her mind already going over ways to improve the old dress, and noticing the changes in Rose's appearance in eight years.

"Rosie D. Bukater!" she exclaimed, using the name that many of the children in the neighborhood in Philadelphia had used when the Hills had lived there. "I never expected to see you here! You still look about the same, though I don't think those matching dresses I made for you and Deborah before we left would still fit either of you."

Rose blushed at Mrs. Hill's assessment. Although she was still easily recognizable, even after eight years, she was now considerably taller than she had been at ten, and she no longer looked like a child.

"You haven't changed much either, Mrs. Hill."

"You're just being nice," she told her, waving a hand.

It was true, though, Rose thought. Belinda Hill still looked much the same as she had eight years earlier, although now, at forty-five, she had a few fine lines around her eyes and two dramatic streaks of silver in her upswept brown hair. She had always been a striking, unconventionally beautiful woman, and that hadn't changed.

"So, Rose, what are you doing in San Francisco?"

Rose hesitated a moment, then decided that it was best to just tell the truth. "I'm an actress with a traveling theater troupe. We do Shakespeare."

"You always did have a dramatic flair," Mrs. Hill commented, gesturing to her to sit down. "Is your family in San Francisco?"

Rose shook her head. "No. My father passed away about three years ago, and my mother is still living in Philadelphia." At least, she hoped so.

"I'm sorry to hear about your father. How is your mother doing?"

Again, Rose hesitated. "I'm not really sure. I haven't seen her in almost a year and a half."

"A year and a half?"

"I left home to become an actress, and Mother...didn't care for that decision."

"No, I guess she wouldn't. As I recall, she had very definite ideas about what was appropriate and what wasn't."

Rose wondered for a moment why Mrs. Hill hadn't commented on Rose's leaving Cal at the altar, but then recalled that she had never been particularly interested in the society columns, which she considered a waste of time. Such diverse subjects as women's suffrage, finance, and fashion interested her, but gossip did not.

"So little Rosie is now an actress! What role do you play?"

"I'm a leading lady in three Shakespeare plays—As You Like It, Hamlet, and King Lear."

"A leading lady! Congratulations. What theater are you performing at?"

"The Moore Theater. Are you familiar with it?"

"Yes. We financed several productions there. It's good to bring culture to the masses."

Rose raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment.

"Which play is showing Saturday?"

"King Lear."

Mrs. Hill thought for a moment. "We have company Saturday afternoon, but I'm sure we could be there Saturday night."

"The play starts at eight."

"Are there still tickets available?"

"Yes. If you hurry."

"Well, then, if you'll excuse me a moment, I'll call Mr. Hill at his office and ask him to purchase two tickets for Saturday's performance."

Rose sat quietly while Mrs. Hill went to make her call. Deborah's mother hadn't changed much over the years. She was still open and friendly, but somewhat snobbish when dealing with those less fortunate than herself. Still, she wasn't a bad person, and had done a great deal of good charity work back in Philadelphia. She had undoubtedly done the same in San Francisco and wherever else she had been.

Mrs. Hill returned to the parlor. "He's sent his secretary to purchase the tickets," she told Rose. "We'll both be there, and so will Deborah and her husband."

"How is Deborah? I haven't heard from her since April of 1906."

"She hasn't contacted you at all? I thought surely she would have."

"No."

Mrs. Hill shook her head. "That's odd, because you two were the best of friends. Still, she had a rough time of it after the earthquake, and maybe that's why she never contacted you."

"What happened?"

"We were living in a lovely brick house when the earthquake struck. The brick, of course, crumbled, and the house fell in. Mr. Hill and I escaped unscathed, but Deborah wasn't so lucky. She injured her back badly and hasn't been able to walk since. We searched for a cure for years, but never found one. The doctors say that you can't cure a broken back. She can feel a little bit in her toes, but that's all. She can't walk at all."

"That's terrible!" Rose exclaimed, feeling horrible about what had happened to her friend. No wonder Deborah had never contacted her.

"We took her from doctor to doctor, trying to find a cure, but nothing ever worked. Finally, she declared that if we took her to one more charlatan with special medicines, diets, and exercises, she was going to run away from home, then cried because she couldn't run. We finally resigned ourselves to the fact that she wasn't going to get better—it took us longer than it took her. She's in a wheelchair now, and gets around very well. Her legs don't work, but her arms are strong."

"Your housekeeper said that she's married."

"Yes. She was married early in September, about six weeks ago, to a fine young man. He doesn't care that she can't walk, and he's even had elevators installed in their house so that she could get up and down stairs without being carried. A happier pair I've never seen. I may have grandchildren yet."

"I'd like to visit her."

"She lives just two blocks from here, in a lovely house with vines growing up the sides. A bit eccentric, but it makes her happy. In fact, I was going to visit with her this afternoon, around three o'clock. Would you like to come along?"

"Will she want to see me?"

"I'm sure she will. She's not nearly so self-conscious now as she was just after the earthquake. I'm sure she'll be glad to see you."


	29. The Actress 9

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Mrs. Hill and Rose arrived at the home of Deborah Hutchison just after three o'clock. The maid who answered the door escorted them right into Deborah's sitting room, where Deborah was sitting in her wheelchair in front of a desk, writing.

Deborah barely glanced at them at first. "I'll be finished in just a second, Mother," she said. "Just let me finish this paragraph." Then she did a double take.

Rose had been standing behind Mrs. Hill, but when she stepped out Deborah saw her and stared in disbelief for a moment. Forgetting her papers, she set them on the desk and turned toward them, unable to believe her eyes.

"Rosie?" she asked in surprise.

"Debbie!" Rose hurried toward her, then stopped, uncertain of what to do.

Deborah wheeled her chair in Rose's direction. "I haven't seen you in years! What brings you to San Francisco?"

"You never wrote after 1906."

Deborah looked a little sheepish. "I guess I didn't. Has it really been that long?"

"It's 1913 now, you know."

"I know. Heavens, seven years. I didn't even think about how much time had passed."

They both stopped, a little embarrassed. Deborah's maid broke the tension, bringing in a tray of tea and sandwiches. Deborah gestured to her to set it on the table and wheeled herself over.

"Mother, Rose, sit down and have some tea."

They sat around the small table, helping themselves to sandwiches and tea. Rose held her cup gingerly, looking from Deborah to Mrs. Hill.

"What are you doing in San Francisco, Rose?" Deborah asked again, pouring some tea.

"Ah...actually, I'm here with a traveling theater troupe, doing Shakespeare. We're performing at the Moore Theater, doing Hamlet, As You Like It, and King Lear. Your mother says you'll be accompanying her and your father to the theater on Saturday."

"Your mother let you go on stage?" Deborah asked in disbelief. Even her mother, who was known for being very liberal and forward thinking, would have been appalled at the thought of her daughter as a professional actress. Actresses were often considered little better than prostitutes.

"No," Rose replied. "She doesn't know about it." At least, she didn't think Ruth knew about it.

"Is she here, in San Francisco?"

Rose shook her head. "She's still in Philadelphia."

"And she let you go off on your own like this? Did your father talk her into it?" Rose's father had always been more permissive than her mother.

"No, Father died about three years ago. Mother was set on me getting married, but I didn't like her choice."

"Who was it?"

"Caledon Hockley."

"Caledon Hockley?" Deborah thought for a moment. "Wasn't he that rich boy who liked to bully all the children?"

Rose nodded affirmatively. "One and the same."

"Did he ever outgrow that?"

"No."

Deborah nodded knowingly. "I wouldn't have wanted to marry him, either."

"I heard you were married recently."

"That's right. September 2, 1913, to William Hutchison. He's young, but he's already a partner in Father's business. He bought this house, and had elevators installed for me so I could get around easier. We spent our honeymoon in New York City, and only got back two weeks ago."

"You're happy, then?"

"Oh, yes. Will—I call him Will—is wonderful. He came courting even though I was in this wheelchair, and took me all sorts of places. I thought that he would be like most of the other young men who came to call—he'd get uncomfortable with a girl in a wheelchair, and drop her for someone else, but not Will. He even tried out my wheelchair a few times, to see what it was like." She laughed. "He kept steering himself into walls and furniture. I never laughed so hard in my life. He proposed back in May, and of course Mother and Father approved—they were afraid I'd end up an old maid."

"An old maid!" Rose exclaimed. "You're only eighteen."

"And I was seventeen then, but they still worried."

"And rightly so," Mrs. Hill interjected. "What would have happened to you after we're gone?"

"Oh, Mother, I would have been fine. I'm your only heir, and, besides that, I'm going to be a famous writer someday. I've already had my poetry published in several newspapers and magazines."

"You have?" Rose asked in surprise. She had never read any of it.

"I write under a pen name," Deborah explained. "Father thought that publishing under my own name would bring too much notoriety, so I write under the name of Judith Stark."

Rose suddenly remembered a piece of poetry that she had read in a magazine while on the train to San Francisco. It had been memorable to her because it was about escaping from a trap and finding happiness, much as she had done when she left Cal. The author's name had been Judith Stark.

Rose mentioned this to Deborah. Deborah nodded.

"Yes, I wrote that," she told Rose. "I came up with it after Will and I got married, because I felt like I had escaped from this trap...this trap of being crippled...and was finally completely alive again. I realized that being in a wheelchair was not the end of my life, and that I could do all the things that I wanted to do, in spite of it. It was my third poem, and, I think, my best. Even though wretched things happen sometimes, you can still go on with life, if you only realize how."

Rose nodded, smiling. "You're absolutely right."

"Well, you know all about that. Even though your father died, and your mother wanted you to marry that bully, you still managed to go out and become an actress. What part do you play, by the way?"

"I'm the leading lady for the company."

Deborah's eyes widened. "The leading lady? You have been successful."

Rose smiled modestly. "It took hard work, chance, and a lot of luck."

"Still...you've done really well. Do you have a beau?"

Rose shook her head. "Not at the moment."

"Well, you'll find someone one of these days, and then you'll be as happy as Will and I are."

_I was that happy_, Rose thought, _until an iceberg collided with the Ship of Dreams, and the man that I loved wound up as cold and still as that piece of ice._ But to Deborah, she said, "Someday, I hope so." Changing the subject, she said, "I saw in the papers that you've only been in San Francisco these last six months. Where were you before that?"

Mrs. Hill answered her. "We left San Francisco after the earthquake, and moved down to San Jose. We spent several years traveling, as well, seeking a cure for Deborah."

"Which you didn't find, and you nearly drove me mad seeking," Deborah interjected.

"At least we tried. Parents will do what they think is right for their children, even if it does annoy them sometimes."

"I know, Mother. You did the best you could. But some of those doctors were nothing but charlatans, and those treatments recommended by them were worse than being in a wheelchair."

Rose listened to them bicker affectionately, thinking about how different the relationship between Deborah and her mother was than that of Rose and Ruth. To be sure, Ruth could be loving and caring at times, but she was often more concerned with how things were viewed by others, and this affected the way she treated Rose. Still, Rose sincerely hoped that her mother was all right, that no harm had come to her, and that she was happy.

"Have you ever been to Los Angeles?" Deborah suddenly asked Rose.

Rose shook her head, but her interest was piqued. "No. Why?"

"We lived there for about two years before returning to San Francisco. Father established a branch of his business down there, and that was when William joined the business, and transferred to San Francisco when we did."

Rose remembered Jack talking about Los Angeles—and about Santa Monica. "What was it like there?"

"It's incredible. It's warm year round...well, maybe not warm, but definitely not as cold as Philadelphia, and there's more sun than in San Francisco. We had flowers all year round, because it hardly ever got below freezing—maybe a few really cold days in winter, and that was all—and we were so close to the ocean that it didn't get too hot, although there were a few days in every summer that got unpleasant. I visited the beach a lot—we had a car, and I'd have our chauffeur drive me down there. The beaches are beautiful, although I couldn't really go in the water because I can't move my legs, and the waves were a little rough. But the times that I got close to the water—sometimes someone would carry me out—it was warm, at least in summer. I got very strong arms wheeling myself through the sand, which is harder than on a smooth surface."

Rose couldn't resist asking if they'd ever been to Santa Monica.

"We went there just before I turned sixteen. Father had some business there, so we all went. There's a lot of interesting things there—even a roller coaster, although I wasn't allowed to ride on it. I got to do other things, though—I even had my portrait done by this artist who was hanging around the pier. He only charged ten cents, although he drew so well that he could have charged more and people still would have paid to have their pictures drawn."

Rose felt a sudden catch in her throat. _Jack! _she thought, remembering the portrait he had done of her. Quickly, she sipped some tea, trying to suppress the sudden surge of emotion.

"What made you think of Santa Monica?" Deborah asked, nibbling on a sandwich.

"Oh, I just heard about it, and it sounded interesting," Rose replied. "Do you still have the drawing?"

"Yes. It's somewhere around here..." Deborah pushed her chair away from the table, wheeling herself over to the desk and rummaging through the drawers.

"Here it is," she announced, removing the portrait from a drawer. It was inside a folder, and Deborah opened it, revealing a carefully rendered drawing of herself, sitting in her wheelchair on the pier, her hat tilted at an odd angle on her head. In the corner of the drawing were the initials JD.

Rose swallowed hard around the lump in her throat. It was obviously Jack's work. She would have recognized it even without the initials.

"It's...a perfect likeness," she told Deborah. "It captures your spirit."

"It does, doesn't it?" Mrs. Hill interjected, viewing the picture. "I didn't realize you still had that."

"I'm not going to throw away something like this. It's a fine work of art." She looked at the drawing for a moment longer, then tucked it back in the drawer and wheeled herself back to the table.

"How would you like to stay for dinner?" she asked Rose suddenly. "We can catch up on old times—that is, if you don't have to perform tonight."

"Sure, I'd love to stay," Rose told her. "Monday is my night off."

"Great. I'll have Lucille tell Mrs. Bloomfield to make dinner for three tonight. You'll get to meet Will." She reached over and tugged on a cord, ringing a bell. A moment later, the maid who had brought them their tea appeared in the doorway.

"Yes, ma'am?" she asked.

"Tell Mrs. Bloomfield that there will be a guest for dinner tonight," Deborah told her.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you, Lucille."

Rose was impressed with the way Deborah treated her servants. Many wealthy people would never consider thanking a servant for doing as they ordered.

"I would have asked you, Mother, but I know that you have an important business associate coming to dinner tonight, so I thought you'd want to be at home."

"It's all right. You and Rose need to catch up on things anyway." She glanced at the clock. "I must be going. Rose, will you be able to find your way back into the city all right?"

"Oh, don't worry about her, Mother. Mitchell will drive her back when dinner is over."

"Ah...thank you," Rose said, realizing that her evening was being planned for her.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Rose. But I don't think you should be walking the streets of San Francisco alone at night. There's some people out there you're better off not meeting."

Rose was well aware of this, and, admittedly, she wasn't looking forward to an after-dark jaunt through the city. But she wasn't used to being driven around anymore. She rarely rode in a car at all; usually, she got around by train, on foot, or by trolley. Still, she nodded graciously.

"Thank you," she said again. "I'd rather not be out on the streets alone at night anyway."

Mrs. Hill left soon after, and Deborah and Rose spent the afternoon reminiscing about their childhoods in Philadelphia. Rose told Deborah about what had happened after she left, leaving out the parts about the Titanic and Jack. She also left out most of her experience with Cal, although she did tell her about leaving him at the altar, much to Deborah's amusement. She described life in New York, and her career as an actress.

Deborah told her about her life in San Francisco, about the earthquake, and her subsequent paralysis. She had been angry and frustrated for a long time afterward, and this was the main reason why she hadn't contacted Rose. Even after she was feeling better, it didn't really occur to her to write to her old friends, and so the years had slipped by without contact.

Deborah's story made Rose realize just how long it had been since she had contacted her mother. It had been nearly a year and a half since she had left home, and she had not written to her mother, nor telephoned her, nor even sent her a telegram. She had no idea what her mother was doing now, or how she was doing. And yet, she was still afraid to contact her, afraid that somehow Cal would find her. She also feared that something had happened to Ruth, with Cal so insistent that all redheads were evil, and his words about needing to protect his father from Ruth. She almost felt that it was better not to know.

Deborah told Rose about the years they had lived in San Jose, and about the various treatments that had been tried for her injured back. None had worked, and, although she had been optimistic in the beginning, after a while she had realized the futility of the treatments, and had opted instead to learn to live with herself as she was. She had done an admirable job of it, too.

After the Hills had moved to Los Angeles early in 1911, she had begun to convince herself that, despite her injury, she was still alive, still had a life to live, and could do most of the things she had done before. She had spent countless hours on the beach, watching the waves roll in and out, and had slowly healed from the trauma—not physically; the crippling injury would never be fully healed—but emotionally. She had begun writing, and had met and fallen in love with William Hutchison. By the time she and Will were married in 1913, she had regained her old liveliness, and was a stronger person than before because of what she had endured.

Will arrived home shortly before dinner, and called for his wife. Deborah and Rose took the elevator down to the first floor, where Deborah introduced Rose and Will. Rose watched them with a twinge of envy, noting the deep affection between the two, and remembering how it had been in those few brief days she had spent with Jack. Watching them, she suddenly wished that she had someone who would come home to her each day, asking how her day had been and worrying over her welfare. Maybe someday, she thought, she would find a husband who would love her as much as Will loved Deborah.

Dinner was pleasant, and Rose enjoyed being in the company of the young newlyweds. They talked for hours afterward, and Rose and Deborah promised to write this time. Afterward, Mitchell, the chauffeur, drove Rose back to her hotel, as she contemplated the strange directions that life took people—and how, sometimes, things worked out in spite of themselves.


	30. The Actress 10

Chapter Thirty

The Hills and the Hutchisons attended the theater that Saturday night, and were very impressed with what they saw, although Mrs. Hill was somewhat put out by the fact that she had to sit next to someone who was only middle class. They visited with Rose afterward, presenting her with flowers for a job well done.

Rose visited with Deborah at least once a week after that, but she was beginning to look forward to the month-long vacation that the troupe was taking. She wasn't sure what she wanted to do yet—she had several ideas—but as December grew closer, she thought about it more often.

The Hutchisons had invited her to stay with them over the holiday, but Rose wasn't sure that was what she wanted to do. She felt as though she would be intruding upon their solitude, but she finally agreed to stay with them through Christmas. After that—she had two destinations in mind. She couldn't travel too extensively; she didn't have the money, but she could afford to go to one destination during her vacation, and still have the money to meet the others in Saint Louis.

The two destinations that Rose had in mind were Santa Monica, California, and New Orleans, Louisiana. She had wanted to visit Santa Monica since Jack had talked about it on the Titanic, but she wasn't sure that she was ready to face the place. Despite her efforts to leave Jack in the past, she still thought of him occasionally; moreso when she encountered something that reminded her of him. Santa Monica was sure to do that.

New Orleans seemed a better destination. She had been there once before, for Christmas when she was seven years old, and she had loved the place. The Bukaters had gone down to New Orleans to visit her mother's family. Ruth was originally from New Orleans, but had moved to Philadelphia when she had married. The relatives left behind weren't well known to Rose—she had only met them once—but she had enjoyed visiting New Orleans more than she liked most trips with her family. Of course, it wouldn't be the same now, with her father dead and her mother far away in Philadelphia, but Rose thought that she might enjoy visiting there. The city itself was fascinating, and it was fairly warm in the winter, too, something that she valued.

Rose was looking forward to vacation for another reason, as well. Marietta continued to hound her, picking on her unmercifully whenever they met, and Rose was unable to avoid her in the close confines of the dressing room. She wasn't entirely certain what Marietta found so irritating about her—she had won the attention of the faithless Richard, and she had been slowly moving up in rank in the company. Nevertheless, Marietta still envied Rose's position, and her former relationship with Richard, and her wealthy friends, and never missed an opportunity to taunt her, "accidentally" hit her or spill makeup on her, or trip her. Rose tried to ignore her, but she had never been especially good at ignoring insults, and struck back often enough to make it worth Marietta's time to taunt her.

Evelyn encouraged Rose to "turn the other cheek." Marietta thrived upon attention, and if she did not get what she craved, she would eventually give up and find something else to set her mind upon. Rose tried to follow Evelyn's advice, but it was difficult, with Marietta tormenting her day in and day out.

Things finally came to a head the last night that the company was together in San Francisco. Rose was alone in the dressing room, as she always was on the last night in a place, making sure that nothing had been left behind. She had carefully packed her own belongings, and was getting ready to leave and spend one last night in the hotel before going to spend a week with the Hutchisons.

Evelyn had left as soon as the performance was over. She and her father were on their way to Texas, to visit with Evelyn's mother's relatives, and they had to catch a train almost immediately. Evelyn had wished Rose a hasty farewell, promising to meet her at the train station in Saint Louis in a month. Most of the other members of the troupe had also left soon after, though a few remained to pack up.

Rose glanced around the room one last time, making certain that nothing had been left behind, and turned toward the door. As she picked up her bag, the door suddenly swung open, and Marietta came barging in.

"Still here?" she asked Rose snottily. "I thought you'd be off to stay with your rich friends by now."

Rose tried to ignore her, but Marietta was determined to get a reaction out of her.

"I noticed that your good friend Mrs. Hutchison is a cripple." She paused, smirking. "I think I know why her husband invited you to stay."

Rose's face reddened angrily at the slur against her friends. "For your information, Marietta," she told her, saying the name like it was a curse, "it was Mrs. Hutchison who invited me to stay. We've been friends for years—"

"You don't have to explain things to me, Rose," Marietta told her, still smirking. "Everyone knows what your reputation is."

Rose stiffened. "And just what is my reputation?" she inquired, putting on her most sickly sweet voice.

"I'm surprised you don't already know."

"I don't. Perhaps you'd like to elaborate?"

"You're a slut. Sleeping with Richard all those months—the walls of those hotels are thin enough to hear through, you know—and carrying on with your friend's husband, all the while going out with young men after the show."

Rose tried to count to ten. It was true, she'd had an affair with Richard, but she had never carried on with Will, and those dinners with admiring young men were just that—dinners, nothing more. And Marietta's morals were no higher than hers. But she knew better than to point this out. Marietta had formed an opinion, and anything Rose said would just reinforce it.

"You're a fine one to talk, Marietta. You've been carrying on with Richard for the past six weeks." Rose knew that she should stop arguing and walk out, but she'd been taunted for too long, and she was looking for a fight.

She went on. "At least I managed to keep his attention for several months. You're already losing it. I saw him with one of the supers just last night."

Marietta's face turned red. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I'm sure you don't. You were too busy propositioning that stage door Johnny." She paused, giving Marietta an equally nasty smirk. "Your real problem with me is that you want my place in the company. But you're never going to get there. You don't have the talent. You may try to sleep your way to the top, but you'll never reach my level. I may be a slut, but at least I'm a talented slut."

Marietta's face was twisted into what could only be described as a snarl. "You...bitch!" she ground out, fury evident in her face and voice. "How dare you judge me?"

"If you've got it, flaunt it."

Marietta slapped her, her fingernails curling into claws. Rose dropped her bag and kicked her sharply in the shin. A moment later, they were rolling on the floor, kicking, punching, clawing, and pulling each other's hair, screeching furiously. A knock sounded on the door.

"What's going on in there?!"

Marietta wrestled Rose to the ground and held her down, trying to get a good jab in. Rose jerked her head to the side, avoiding Marietta's fist, and kicked out with her feet, knocking Marietta off of her. Marietta snarled in rage and dove at Rose again, just as the door opened.

Startled, Marietta half-turned to see who it was—just as Rose gave her a shove. Caught off balance, she fell against a cabinet that had once held costumes. There was a sickening crack as she landed against it head first.

"What's the meaning of this?" Harry Parsons stood in the doorway, looking at Rose's bag lying on the floor, at the torn clothes and disheveled hair of both women—and at Marietta, lying in a motionless heap in front of the cabinet.

Rose was shaking from the adrenaline. "We got into a fight," she told him, as calmly as she could. "Marietta's been on my case for months."

Mr. Parsons stalked over to Marietta, who was still lying where she had fallen. He bent over her, looking closer, and then took her wrist, feeling for a pulse. After a moment, he shook his head.

"This was more than a fight," he told Rose stiffly. "Her neck's broken."

"What?" Rose rushed forward, not believing him. She'd just given Marietta a good shove. That wasn't enough to break a person's neck.

There was no doubt about it. Marietta's head lay at an odd angle. Heart pounding with dread, Rose took Marietta's wrist and checked for a pulse.

There was none. Rose stepped back, horrified at her own actions. She hadn't meant to do it, had only meant to shove her nemesis out of the way, but she had still done it. She had killed Marietta.

Rose turned to see that Mr. Parsons had closed the door and was leaning against it. "I've sent one of the stage hands to find a police officer," he told her. "You aren't going anywhere until one gets here."

"It was an accident," Rose choked out, still stunned and shaken by what she had done. She had never meant to kill her.

"We'll let the courts decide that."

A few minutes later, the stage hand returned with two police officers. As they handcuffed Rose and led her away, the remaining stage hands stared in shock. None of them had expected to see the company's leading lady arrested on suspicion of murder.


	31. The Actress 11

Chapter Thirty-One

Rose huddled in a corner of the cold, damp cell, trying to make herself as invisible as possible. After she had been arrested, she had been taken to the nearest jail, a dark, forbidding building on one of the few flat pieces of ground in the city.

After she had been strip-searched—a humiliating process, especially with it being conducted by two male police officers—she had been given a disreputable looking prison dress and escorted to this damp, dirty cell.

One other person was in the cell with her—a prostitute who had been caught lifting her customers' wallets. The woman was sprawled across the lower bunk now, snoring loudly. Even on the other side of the cell, Rose could smell the alcohol on her breath. Probably, she thought sourly, that was why the woman had been caught—she was too drunk to steal discreetly.

Rose buried her head in her knees, trying to ignore her cellmate's snoring. She was just glad that she hadn't been put in with any male prisoners—God only knew what would have happened to her then. She doubted that her cellmate would harm her—prostitutes didn't generally commit violent crimes unless they thought someone was horning in on their business. Furthermore, the snoring woman would likely wake up with a horrible hangover, and be more concerned with her aching head than with a cellmate with a murder charge.

Rose curled up more tightly in the corner as a guard walked by. When he had disappeared down the corridor, she leaned her head against the wall in exhaustion, cursing herself for getting into this mess. Shuddering inwardly, she remembered Marietta's body sprawled against the cabinet, her head lying at an odd angle. Rose shook her head, knowing that the whole thing could have been prevented if only she'd practiced a little self-restraint.

She hadn't had to get into a fight with Marietta. She could have walked away as soon as Marietta entered the room, ignoring the obnoxious twit. She could have walked away after Marietta had slapped her, or refused to exchange insults with her, or stopped the fight when Mr. Parsons had walked into the room. But she had been angry, and had been pushed too far by months of insults, and she had thought only of how angry she was. She had never considered that the shove she had given Marietta could be fatal.

Rose closed her eyes, trying to block out the sound of her cellmate's snores. Marietta had been rude, obnoxious, bitchy, and little more than a slut, but she hadn't deserved to die. Rose shuddered, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the cold, damp cell. She was frightened, wondering what would happen to her, but more than that, she felt guilty. She had killed someone, taken a life, taken the most precious thing a person could possess. Life was more precious than money, or jewels, or any of the things that people of her old crowd had valued. She hadn't liked Marietta, but she had never wished her dead, and she couldn't understand how some people could kill others and feel nothing. Killing Marietta had left Rose with a sick, cold feeling inside, one that no warm blanket or shot of liquor could cure.

Rose remembered a rumor that she had heard on the Carpathia, that an officer had shot someone, and then shot himself. She hadn't understood then why someone would do such a thing, but now she was beginning to understand. She wouldn't harm herself, though; she was a survivor, and would keep on fighting for life as long as she had breath in her body.

_What will happen to me?_ Rose wondered. She had refused to say anything to the police, understanding her constitutional right to not incriminate herself. Marietta's death had been an accident, and Rose wasn't about to give anyone the impression that it was anything else. She had maintained her silence until they had locked her in the cell, and after that no one had asked her anymore questions.

Rose understood how deeply in trouble she was. If she couldn't convince the courts that Marietta's death had been an accident, she could be facing years in prison. She might spend time in prison anyway. Or worse, if she was convicted of murder, she could wind up being executed.

Rose sat up straighter, trying to reassure herself. Women were rarely executed, and the many people who knew her knew that she was not usually a violent person. Mr. Parsons had seen what had happened, and although he had insisted that she be sent to jail, she had sensed a certain amount of sympathy from him. He might speak out in her behalf.

Rose wondered how long it would take for her to go to trial. She had no idea how many people were awaiting trial themselves, and much as she disliked waiting, she dreaded going to trial. She had little money, and was unlikely to be able to afford a lawyer. Unless someone took pity on her, she would have to defend herself, and she wasn't sure that she was up to the task.


	32. The Actress 12

Chapter Thirty-Two

Around noon the next day, the guard arrived at Rose's cell. "You have a visitor," he told her, escorting her caller to her cell.

Wearily, Rose came to the door of her cell to see who it was. Her cellmate had been removed earlier that morning, escorted out by a slick-looking gentleman who had glowered at the woman as they walked away. Rose suspected that the man was the woman's pimp, and she pitied her cellmate.

Will Hutchison stood in front of the bars of Rose's cell. Rose stared at him with a combination of surprise, relief, and dismay. She hadn't wanted too many people to know what had happened, but somehow Will, and probably Deborah as well, had found out what had happened. She wondered how they had found out. Maybe it was in the newspaper.

"Will...what are you doing here?" she asked, wondering why he had seen fit to visit her here.

"Your director, Mr. Parsons, contacted Deborah this morning about what had happened. She called me at work, so I came down."

"Well, thank you. I'm...in a bit of trouble."

"That's an understatement. I just want you to know that Deborah and I are on your side...we don't believe that you did it."

Rose's heart sank at what she had to say. "I thank you, but you put too much faith in me. I did exactly what they're accusing me of. I killed Marietta Scott."

Will paled. "My God...why?"

"It was an accident. I didn't mean to." Quickly, she told him what had happened.

Will shook his head. "I'll find you a lawyer."

"I can't afford a lawyer."

"Don't worry about the cost. I'll take care of it." He put up a hand as Rose started to object. "I can afford it. Besides, Deborah would kill me if I didn't. Don't worry, we'll get you out of this."

Rose sighed resignedly. "All right. Thank you. I appreciate it."

"I'll get someone to see you this afternoon. I know several lawyers, and I'm sure I can find someone who can help you." He paused, pulling out his pocket watch. "I have a meeting in twenty minutes, so I've got to leave." He turned to leave.

Rose called to him. "Will...thank you. Thank Deborah for me, too."

He nodded before hurrying down the corridor.

Rose walked over to the bunks and sank down on the lower one, exhausted. Worried about her future, she hadn't slept all night. Now, she lay back, ignoring the grimy condition of the sheets, and closed her eyes.

The guard awakened Rose around four o'clock. A portly, balding man with a briefcase stood outside her cell. The guard let him in and locked the door behind him, walking away.

"Miss Dawson? I'm Henry Binder, of the Binder and Keel law firm, specializing in criminal law."

"Mr. Binder." Rose shook his hand. "Sit down." She offered him a seat on the lower bunk.

Binder eyed it distastefully, preferring to stand. Setting down his briefcase, he dug through it, extracting some papers.

"I understand that you're being charged with homicide."

Rose nodded. "Yes, but it was an accident."

Binder didn't say anything, but Rose could almost read his thoughts. He'd heard too many guilty people defend themselves for crimes they had committed.

"Suppose you tell me your side of the story."

Rose told him what had happened, from Marietta's constant taunts and obnoxious behavior, to the fight the previous night, to her accidental killing of her fellow actress.

Binder nodded, scribbling in a notebook the whole time. Rose wondered what he was writing, but didn't ask. When she finally finished her story, he looked back over the notes that he had written, and gave her his assessment.

"You've already decided to plead guilty," he commented, looking at his notebook. Rose nodded.

"I didn't mean to kill her, but I did. It was an accident." To her embarrassment, tears welled up in her eyes and poured down her cheeks. The strain of the last twenty-four hours was overwhelming her.

"I'm sorry," she told him, wiping her eyes. Wordlessly, Binder handed her his handkerchief. She wasn't the first client to break down and cry.

"I think you can make a good case for self-defense," he told her, as Rose wiped her face with the handkerchief. She shook her head.

"I didn't have to kill her. It was—"

"—an accident. I know," he told her, sighing. "But she attacked you first, and she had shown hostile intent for several months."

"I could have walked away."

Binder sighed. "Yes, but you had no way of knowing how the fight would end. You could easily have been killed in her place."

Rose nodded slightly, conceding his point, but she still didn't feel that she had acted in self-defense.

"Look, I'm trying to find an argument that will get you acquitted. If you are convicted, you may be facing ten to fifteen years in prison. I don't think that's what you want to happen. I also feel that a self-defense plea is your best hope."

Rose was silent for a moment, thinking. It hadn't been self-defense, and she knew it. But she didn't want to spend years in prison, either. One night had been more than enough for her. And it was true, she hadn't deliberately killed Marietta. She would bring her back if she could.

"All right. I'll plead self-defense," she told him, knowing that such a plea sounded feasible, if only to someone who hadn't been there.

He nodded, turning to a fresh page in his notebook. "Let's work out the details of your defense," he told her.

Rose nodded, and they began planning for her trial.


	33. The Actress 13

Chapter Thirty-Three

Rose's trial was held early in January. In many cases, it took far longer for a trial to begin, but Gregory Hill, Deborah's father, had called in a favor or two with local authorities, and had gotten Rose's trial moved up.

Rose was surprised at how supportive both the Hills and the Hutchisons had been. She knew that she was guilty, even though she hadn't meant to do what she had done, but she never mentioned that after her lawyer had advised her not to. Deborah had already heard Rose's complaints about her obnoxious fellow actress, and was convinced that if Rose had indeed killed Marietta, there was a reason for it. Will was more reserved, but he too was supportive of Rose. Gregory Hill had said nothing about it, at least not to Rose, and Belinda Hill simply could not believe that Rose was capable of such a thing.

Several members of the Shakespeare troupe who had known Rose the best were traced to their various vacation spots and recalled to San Francisco. Evelyn testified in Rose's behalf, as did Richard, Ellen, and Harry Parsons. Few people had much good to say about Marietta. She had been best known for being obnoxious and manipulative, and the jury soon sympathized with Rose, after hearing account after account of how disliked Marietta Scott had been by the other members of the troupe. Some questioned why she had been kept on, but after Harry alluded to a promise that had been made to Marietta's mother years before, the questions stopped. Marietta had had no family, and few people had cared much for her. Even Richard, who had been carrying on an affair with her at the time of her death, had little positive to say about her.

Rose was on pins and needles the whole time. She was not permitted to testify in her own defense, and the jury, although sympathetic, looked down upon her for her morals. Rose's lack of innocence, and her worldly mien, made some jurors suspicious. Such an immoral woman might well be guilty of murder.

Deborah sat next to Rose every day at the trial, showing her support. Evelyn shook her head and told Rose that she should have ignored Marietta, but few people were truly sorry to see Marietta gone. They would have preferred that she quit, or go to another company, but not many would miss her.

The jury deliberated for a day and half before coming to a verdict. Rose was on the edge of her seat, her lawyer on one side and Deborah on the other, when the verdict was read—not guilty. The self-defense plea had worked.

Rose had expected to feel elated if found not guilty, but instead all she felt was cold and empty inside. She had gotten away with killing another human being. Society would have no retribution on her, but she wondered if her own private guilt wasn't a worse punishment than any the law could have given. She would have to live with the memory of what she had done for the rest of her life. Marietta would haunt her forever.

Rose went home with the Hutchisons the following day. They invited her to stay for a while, and Rose initially took them up on their invitation, but every place she went, everything she saw, reminded her of what had happened. Much as she appreciated the Hutchison's hospitality, she couldn't stay.

Despite the fact that she had been acquitted, neither Mr. Parsons nor Ellen wanted her to come back. They were aware of the fact that Rose had killed Marietta, and that it had been an accident. They doubted that she would do it again, but the scandal would taint the company anywhere they went, and Rose was soon replaced by a local actress.

Rose worried about whether her actions had made the papers anywhere other than San Francisco. Her mother would be shocked and horrified if she knew what her daughter had done. Rose knew that it was doubtful that the killing had been announced in eastern newspapers, but she still worried that word had somehow gotten back to Ruth. She had thought about contacting her mother while she was traveling, so that Cal would be unable to trace her, but now her fear of what her mother might think of her gave her second thoughts about trying to reach her. What mother would want to acknowledge a daughter who was a murderess? Rose realized that her fears were irrational, but with her recent ordeal, they were enough to keep her away from any telegraph office, post office, or telephone.

After two weeks, Rose had had enough of San Francisco. She hated the constant reminders, the stares and whispers when she went out, and the persistent chill of the San Francisco winter. Already chilled inside from the memory of what she had done, she found the cool, foggy weather unbearable. She still had most of the money she had saved while acting with the company, and she could get quite a ways if she was careful with it.

On January 23, 1914, Rose packed her bags and said good-bye to Deborah and Will, and to the Hills. Deborah insisted upon slipping several days worth of food and twenty dollars into Rose's bag. They drove to the train station in silence.

Rose still wasn't sure where she was going, but as she looked at the various destinations posted, and the prices for getting there, she chose the place that she had found so delightful all those years before—New Orleans, Louisiana.

That afternoon, Rose boarded the train. She waved good-bye to Deborah as long as she could, then turned her face to the east. San Francisco, and her career as a Shakespearean actress, were in the past. Once again, she was leaving everything behind, and starting over.


	34. The Singer 1

Chapter Thirty-Four

_Author's Note: The chapters in this section deal with Rose's business relationship with a black man in New Orleans. For the sake of historical accuracy, I have used the term Negro instead of black or African-American, as that was the commonly used term of the time._

Rose walked slowly down the street, her bag in her hand. She had been in New Orleans for two weeks now, and she had no idea what to do next. She hadn't worried about money when she was considering New Orleans as a vacation destination, but now, with no job and no prospects for one, she was getting worried.

She was grateful for the food and money Deborah had insisted that she take, but it would only last so long. She needed to buy food and shelter, and, while she had learned to search out bargains and make do with very little, her money wouldn't last forever. She had been searching for a job since she had arrived, but jobs were scarce for a woman alone, especially one with no references. She had been very lucky when she had arrived in New York City almost two years earlier, but her luck didn't seem to be holding out.

Rose sighed, sitting down on a bench. She had been staying in cheap hotels, some even sleazier than the one she had stayed in her first night in New York. She had saved every penny possible, but her money still seemed to disappear too quickly. Rose estimated that she had enough money left for about two more weeks, and then, if she didn't find work first, she would be on the streets, scrounging for food and shelter. Although New Orleans was warmer than San Francisco, it still got cold at times, and it rained frequently.

Rose had considered contacting Deborah and Will and asking for help, but her pride held her back. She had made the decision to leave, and she wasn't about to come crawling back, admitting failure. There had to be other options, although many of them didn't appeal to her.

She had looked every day for a legitimate job, but had thus far been unsuccessful. Worried, she wondered if she would have to turn to less legitimate forms of work to survive—dancing in girlie shows, prostitution, stealing. She didn't want to, but she would do what she had to. Giving up was not an option.

"Did you know this bench is for colored folks only?"

Rose looked up, startled out of her ruminations. A Negro man with graying hair stood in front of her, looking at her impatiently.

"What?" she asked, confused.

"Colored only. That's what the sign says."

Rose hadn't been paying attention to what any sign said. Looking around, she saw the sign he was pointing to.

For a moment, she considered leaving, but then changed her mind. "Why is it for colored folks only?" she asked, already knowing the answer, but looking for a fight.

"Because that's the law."

"That's a stupid law."

"Yes, but it's still the law. You need to move."

"No." Rose had been walking all day, and she was tired. She knew the law, but she really didn't care at the moment. Whoever had come up with the law, she thought, must never have walked all day and needed a place to sit down. Besides, who would it hurt if Negroes and whites sat together? What did the lawmakers think would happen? Maybe they thought that whites would darken, or Negroes would lighten. Rose sincerely doubted that such was possible, and even if it was, who cared?

The man sat down at the other end of the bench. Rose glared at him.

"Couldn't you get arrested for sitting on the same bench as me?"

He shrugged. "Maybe, but you're the one whose sitting in the wrong place. It's no skin off my back if you get in trouble."

Rose scowled and looked away. She knew that she could get in trouble, but she didn't really care. If she got arrested, she might get put in jail for the night, and then she wouldn't have to pay for her own shelter and food.

Rose glanced up as the man began to play an unfamiliar stringed instrument. She looked at him, then looked away, refusing to admit that she was curious. Finally, though, her curiosity got the better of her, and she turned to look at the instrument.

"What is that?" she asked, looking closer. She had seen stringed instruments before, but none like this one.

"It's a banjo," he told her, continuing to play.

"I've never seen one of those before."

"You're from the north, aren't you?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing, really."

"Then why ask it?"

"You've got a northern accent."

"I'm from Philadelphia."

"You sound like it."

"Is there something wrong with that?" Rose demanded, her face flushing with irritation.

"Nope."

"Then why comment on it?"

He shrugged, and returned to his instrument. Rose glared at him.

"I think I know why there's separate benches for Negroes and whites," she told him, insultingly. "You drive white people crazy."

"I drive Negroes crazy, too."

Rose snickered.

"What?"

"Nothing." She turned her nose up.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. There's a lot of birds around here."

Rose stared at him indignantly, her mouth hanging open. "They wouldn't dare!"

"You stick your nose up like that, you look like a statue. Birds love statues."

Rose was about to snap back a reply, when she noticed a police officer walking by, looking at them suspiciously. Casually, Rose got to her feet, and walked away, strolling around the block. When she got back, the police officer was gone.

Looking around to make sure he wasn't coming back, Rose sat back down on the bench, looking at the instrument again. The only instrument close to it that she was familiar with was the guitar, but the greatest similarity there was that both instruments were played with the fingers. She listened as he began a familiar tune, one that her mother had sang to her as a small child. When she had grown older, her mother had stopped singing it, telling her that it wasn't appropriate, although Rose had occasionally heard her humming it later. Apparently Ruth had learned it as a child, and remembered it throughout the years. Although Ruth had unlearned her southern accent before Rose was born—she had married Rose's father when she was eighteen, and had dropped her accent by the time she had Rose at age twenty—she had always sung the song with the accent she had learned it in.

Rose listened for a moment, then sang along.

_Swing low, sweet chariot_

_Coming for to carry me home_

_Swing low, sweet chariot_

_Coming for to carry me home._

_Well, I looked over yonder_

_And-a what did I see_

_Coming for to carry me home_

_A band of angels a-coming after me_

_Coming for to carry me home._

Her high, sweet voice carried down the street, causing a few people to stop and look. Some looked offended at the sight of a Negro man and a white woman sitting on a bench together. Others glanced at them briefly, then went about their business. One passerby tossed a nickel to each of them, then tipped his hat and strolled down the street.

Rose caught the nickel deftly, an idea suddenly forming in her head. She had occasionally seen street performers in the larger cities, singing and dancing or reciting. People would stop and listen and watch, and some would toss coins to the performers.

"Do you make any money from your music?" she asked the man, who was looking at her in amusement.

"Sometimes someone will toss some money. Why? Are you planning to rob me?"

"No. I have this idea, though." Quickly, she outlined her idea to him, mentioning the street performers she had seen. She had even seen a few in New Orleans, although not in this neighborhood.

He shook his head. "It's a nice idea, but it wouldn't work."

"Why not?"

"You're a white woman, I'm a Negro man. I'd get arrested if I went into business with you, and you might get arrested, too."

Rose rolled her eyes. "You're old enough to be my grandfather. Surely no one would think there was anything...funny...going on."

"You haven't spent much time in the South, have you?"

"No."

"Well, let me assure you, there's laws in some places, and it's frowned on anywhere."

"That's stupid."

"It may be stupid, but—"

"—it's the way things are." How many times had Rose been told that, growing up? It's the way things are, and they can't be changed. She wasn't ready to give up, though—not by a long shot.

"I can dress up as a man."

"And the minute you opened your mouth, you'd be found out. Your voice is too high."

"Good point." Rose thought some more. "I know! I'll get some makeup and go around in blackface. Nobody will condemn you for working with your granddaughter."

"And what about your hair?"

"I'll pin it up, and put one those handkerchief things over it."

"A tignon."

"A tignon. And then no one will know that I'm really white."

"Have you ever seen anyone in blackface close up?"

"Yes. I used to work in vaudeville."

"They don't look very realistic up close."

Rose shrugged. "It always fooled the audience."

"We wouldn't be working behind lights on a stage. You couldn't pass for Negro in natural light. Besides, if that tignon ever came off, people would see that red hair and know right away what you were up to."

Rose thought about this for a minute, conceding that he was right. But another idea had occurred to her.

"I'll apply makeup lightly, and color my hair black. I did that once, and no one made a fuss. If I look just a little dark, and have dark curly hair, I could pass for a...an octoroon."

"Kissed by the tar brush, eh?"

"Exactly!" Rose was familiar with the phrase; her mother had used it on occasion. In the South, they had very stringent laws governing race, and a person was considered Negro if they had even one Negro ancestor. As far as Rose knew, she had no Negro ancestors, but her family had been in the country for a long time. Few things would surprise her anymore.

"So, you're going to pose as...my granddaughter, I take it?"

"I think that will work. You're kind of light, like you had some white ancestors or something, so it wouldn't surprise people if you had an octoroon granddaughter. I'd be willing to bet that such things happen a lot."

"They do. Are you sure you want to do this? Colored people get looked down on."

"People already look down on me. How much worse could it get?"

He smiled condescendingly, but didn't comment. She would find out, in her own time. It could actually be worse for those who were of mixed race, as he was, than for those who were one or the other. He looked at her, wondering if that would shock her.

"You said that I was kind of light, as if I had white ancestors. So I'll tell you straight out, my father was white."

"Really?" It occurred to Rose that she should be shocked, but she wasn't. She had seen too many things for something like that to shock her. A person's status in society no longer meant to her what it once had, and intermarriage or otherwise interbreeding didn't bother her. She had a more shocking background than he did, but she wouldn't speak of that.

"My mother was a slave, and my father owned her."

"You're that old?"

"I'm fifty-four. I was born in 1860, before slavery was abolished."

"What's your name?" Rose had suddenly realized that she was going into business with someone whose name she didn't know.

"Tom DeWitt."

Rose looked at him, startled. DeWitt? That was her mother's family's name. Of course, the chances of their being related were remote—DeWitt was probably a common name. Still...

"I'm Rose Dawson," she told him, her mind racing. What if they were related? "What was your father's name?"

"Reginald DeWitt."

Reginald DeWitt. That had been the name of Rose's great-grandfather.

"Did he have a white family, too?"

"Oh, yeah. He had a wife and three children—Harold, Susan, and Anthony. My late wife and I worked for Harold's family for years. Harold and his wife, Madeline, had two children—Ruth and John. John still lives in New Orleans, though I haven't seen him in years. Harold died a few years back, and Madeline moved to live with her relatives in Atlanta about two years ago."

Rose was stunned. Harold and Madeline DeWitt were her grandparents, and they had visited with them and her Uncle John the Christmas they had come to New Orleans. She looked up as Tom began to speak again.

"Ruth, now, she married a Yankee and moved up North somewhere. I haven't heard anything of her since."

"Walter Bukater," Rose responded without thinking.

"Yes, that was his name. Walter Bukater. How did you know?"

"I—I knew them. Up in Philadelphia. Walter died a few years ago, of a heart attack. Ruth still lives there." At least, Rose hoped she did.

"Well, that's interesting. I always wondered what had happened to her. Pretty girl. Very elegant. People were shocked when she married a northerner, but then, he had money. Do you know if they had any children?"

"Yes, actually. They...they had a daughter. I knew her...years ago." And in a way, Rose thought, it was true. She had been Rose DeWitt Bukater, long ago. That girl had ceased to exist.

Rose stood, still shaken from what she had learned. What strange coincidences life held, she thought. She had sat down to rest, and had wound up meeting a long-lost relative—even though she couldn't bring herself to tell him of their relationship. Tom DeWitt was her great-uncle, although no one would believe it to look at them.

"Rose."

She looked up as Tom spoke.

"Get yourself some makeup, and take care of your hair. Get a tignon, and meet me back here tomorrow morning. We're in business!"

"Thanks...Tom," she told him, holding out her hand. He shook it, looking a bit surprised. Rose guessed that he wasn't used to white people shaking hands with him on deals.

Rose hurried down the street, turning once to wave to her new business partner and relative, before returning to her hotel.


	35. The Singer 2

Chapter Thirty-Five

Rose soon learned why Tom had looked so skeptical when she had said that she was used to being looked down upon. Whatever she had occasionally faced in her life of wandering, she found to occur on a daily basis as a "colored" person.

She hadn't realized just what life would be like as a minority, and what she found shocked her. Although she had applied makeup lightly, making herself only slightly darker than the average tanned person, she was still regarded as inferior. Few of those they entertained were willing to look beyond surface appearances, of herself or anyone else. But then, she thought, hadn't she seen this before, in many different places? What counted was what people saw on the outside, not what was truly inside a person's heart.

The knowledge struck her as grossly unfair, and she wondered if she had ever been responsible for such thinking in her own life. She couldn't remember, but after a few days of being "colored," she vowed that never again would she even consider judging someone on outside appearances. A person's skin color did not make them superior or inferior, any more than their mode of dress, their wealth, or their social class.

What also surprised Rose was the way that people expected them to act. She had seen the blackface performances when she had worked in vaudeville in New York, and had never thought much about them. She had never participated in one herself, but she knew enough about theater and acting to understand that it wasn't real. Some people, however, seemed to believe that what they had seen in such shows was reality, and expected Rose and Tom to behave in the same way. Rose understood that most people had little experience with the acting profession, or the way that things were overemphasized, or even completely made up there, but it didn't stop her from being annoyed by people's attitudes.

Tom wasn't so affected by these attitudes as Rose. He had been living with them all his life, and, while he didn't care for them either, he had grown used to much of it, and had learned the wisdom of shrugging such things off in a world where he was powerless to stop it. Rose had been at the top of the heap for most of her life, and saw the injustices from a different perspective.

At first, Rose tried to shrug off the way that people treated them, but it galled her. Why should race matter so much? Why was it that some people rejected their money, or their business, or had establishments into which they were not allowed to enter? It made little sense to her.

Rose tolerated the matter for a few days, but one afternoon, when she walked into a small restaurant to buy lunch, and was promptly told to leave, her temper boiled over.

"Why should I leave?" she snapped at the woman working at the counter. "My money's as good as anyone else's."

"I don't allow niggers in here," the woman responded, glaring at Rose. "Now, get out."

"Of all the stupid, idiotic...you're an ignorant bitch!"

The woman's face flushed angrily. "I won't stand for that kind of language in this establishment. Now, leave."

"You should watch your own language," Rose shouted back. "Of course, there's no use in explaining to you what word you used that was so...ignorant. You wouldn't understand anyway. Oh, and by the way," she continued sweetly, "I don't want to patronize your establishment after all. I only patronize decent places."

Rose was halfway out the door when Tom collared her and dragged her around the corner. Rose squirmed furiously.

"Let go of me!"

"You're going to get yourself in a lot of trouble if you keep that up," he told her. "You can't talk that way to white people."

"I don't see why not. They insult us."

"Get it through your head. They are the ones who have all the power. They can do as they please, and no one is likely to do anything about it. Just keep your mouth shut, behave subserviently, and you'll be okay."

"It's not fair!"

He looked at her. "You can go back to being white any time you like. All you have to do is remove that tignon and wash off that makeup, and you'll be respected again."

"And then I wouldn't be permitted to associate with you."

"That's an unfortunate fact of life. Negro men and white women don't go into business together. If I could change that, I would. I like working with you. You're a pleasant person, and you've got a good voice. I'd rather you didn't have to darken your skin—I've always thought blackface was insulting. But it's the way the world works."

"If you think this makeup is so insulting, why did you agree to work with me?"

"I agreed to work with you because I saw that it could be to our mutual benefit. But the makeup..." He shook his head. "It's not just the makeup that's insulting, it's the whole attitude of white people toward Negroes. I'm sure that you've noticed that many people expect us to be just like the blackface shows."

"Yes. I've noticed. It doesn't make much sense. Can't people tell that shows like that are fake?"

"Obviously not."

Rose paced back and forth. "It isn't right! Why should people be...discriminated...against just because they are different? Where do those attitudes come from, anyway?"

"Hundreds of years of slavery."

"But slavery was abolished a good fifty years ago! Shouldn't people have learned something by now?"

"What should be, and what is, aren't always the same thing."

"I know." Rose sighed. How many times had she learned that things weren't always as they should be? This was just another lesson in a long list of them. "I just wish that things weren't this way."

"Like it or not, they are."

"But if enough people tried to change things..."

"Then maybe they would change, and maybe they wouldn't."

"Sometimes, people working together can accomplish what one person losing her temper in a restaurant can't," Rose told him. "After all, people worked together to abolish slavery, and they finally won."

"After a terrible war."

"True, but it's not always that way. In many states now, women have the right to vote, and they got the vote by working together to push things through. There weren't any wars to accomplish that. I'd bet that if enough people, on both sides, came together to change things, the world could be a better place for everyone."

"People have tried to change things before, and it didn't work."

"Sometimes it takes time," Rose admitted, "but when things work, it makes the world a better place." She paused. "I wonder if the people who made all these laws ever really got out there and saw the damage they could do. They're hurting people on both sides, by keeping them apart and unequal. We don't really have equality, even if the Declaration of Independence said that people do."

"I think that the laws are there to keep people unequal," Tom replied dryly.

"But they shouldn't. It's...it's unconstitutional."

"Convince them of that."

"Maybe we should. One person alone can't do much, but two people could start something."

"Not much, and we'd probably end up in jail—or worse."

"But if we could inspire others to join us..."

"We'd still end up in jail."

"It would be for a good cause. I've been in jail before. I could handle it."

Tom looked at her, one eyebrow raised, but didn't ask what she'd been in jail for. He didn't really want to know.

Rose was warming to her idea. "Or, maybe we could somehow convince people that they came up with the idea, without us looking like the culprits. My father handled his business associates that way."

"And how do you think you're going to accomplish that?"

Rose smiled. "Music." At Tom's skeptical look, she elaborated. "Think about it. How many people were given hope during slavery by songs? How many people were inspired to get away from their lives by music?"

Tom nodded thoughtfully, agreeing but still skeptical. He had seen much more of how deeply rooted racism was than Rose, and wasn't so sure that a few songs would be enough to effect a change. Still, he had seen, many times, how songs could give people hope, express their feelings and their situations, and sometimes, it did help improve things, if only slightly. Hope, and a feeling of community, were powerful forces.

"All right," he agreed. "We'll try it." He was still not certain that her idea would work, even slightly, but if they could help to make changes that would improve the lives of his children and grandchildren, he was willing to try.

"Are there any songs that tell about struggle, and people trying to change things, besides the ones we've already sung?" Rose asked, her mind working.

"Some. There are plenty of songs about freedom, and about life. You already know many of them."

"Teach me more." Rose paused, thinking. "I'd bet that if I made up some new verses to old songs, we could say something. After all, isn't that how many songs came to be in the first place?"

"You do know that you're playing with fire, don't you? You don't have to do this. You can go back to your own race any time."

Rose shrugged. "Just because I don't have to be a part of it doesn't mean I don't care. I'm going to do what I can."

Both Rose and Tom were right. Some of the songs could indeed be inspiring, especially when Rose sang them in her most emotional voice. She strongly believed in her cause, although people weren't nearly so inspired as she had hoped.

Tom had known that they wouldn't be, but he was pleased to see that some people, at least, listened and thought about the ideas being presented. More people simply viewed their music as entertainment, but the money they paid kept their act going. Some people were offended by their music, and their refusal to behave in a stereotypical manner, but others appreciated their efforts.

Rose sang many of the old songs, adding new lyrics where they seemed appropriate. She also made up a few new songs, and sang them until they seemed right, as thousands of folk singers before had done, and thousands would after.

A few people did listen to their message, subtle though it was, and Rose heard some of the new songs being sung in an establishment near her hotel that allowed people of all races to come in. The owner of the establishment—a sort of cross between a dance hall, a bar, and a restaurant—was the grandson of a slaveholder, who had defied the present views held by so many, including his family, and emphasized freedom and equality. He often got into trouble because of his views, but it didn't stop him.

Rose wondered if she should be upset because he was using her songs in his establishment without her permission, but she so pleased by the fact that the efforts of herself and Tom seemed to be working, at least somewhat, that she didn't raise a fuss.

Not everyone was so pleased with the musical efforts of Tom and Rose, and they did find themselves harassed and driven off of some streets on occasion. While most listeners viewed the music as entertainment, and a few viewed it as a positive message, there were others who recognized what they were doing and tried to put a stop to it.

Several times, they were driven from a street where they were performing, because of the complaints of those who disagreed with them, while at other times, when the local law enforcement either didn't care or was more concerned with other things, people shouted at them, spat on them, and called them names.

Rose gritted her teeth and refused to retaliate. Fighting back wouldn't accomplish anything, and it would only serve to reinforce the views that these individuals already held.

A few people joined them in their efforts, but after the entire group was carted off to jail one afternoon, the budding civil rights group fell apart. There were a small, but significant, number of people who wanted change, but the timing and the political climate weren't right. The changes that Rose envisioned would not come about for several decades, when other groups of people, inspired by the words and actions of those who refused to accept oppression, would push the changes through. They too would face opposition, but they would ultimately be successful.

Unfortunately, the political climate of the South in 1914 was different from the political climate that would emerge in the 1950's and 1960's. Still, the seeds of change had been planted long before, and the efforts of people across time kept them alive.

On an evening late in February, Rose was walking alone back to her hotel. She had taken off her tignon and scrubbed the makeup off her face, since the hotel she had been staying at for several weeks was only for white people. Thus far, the ruse had been successful. No one seemed to have made the connection between her disguises.

As Rose walked past a bar, she failed to notice several young men emerge from the shadows. Already fortified by liquor, and egged on by each other, they began following her through the growing darkness.

Rose turned when she heard footsteps behind her. Startled, she recognized several of the individuals who had been harassing herself and Tom over the past couple of weeks.

They recognized her, too. In the shadows of dusk, they didn't notice that she had removed the makeup from her face; they only assumed that Rose, alone now, would be easy prey.

"Looks like somebody's trying to pass for white," one of them said, his voice somewhat slurred.

"Yeah, look at those curls. She's a pretty one, ain't she?"

Rose faced them unflinchingly. "Go away. What you want can be had for a price anywhere on this street."

"She's trying to tell us what to do!" one of them exclaimed, grinning. "Who does she think she is, anyway?"

So suddenly that they were startled, Rose whirled around and began to run. She had just made her way around a corner when the fastest of her pursuers caught up to her. He grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her back. Rose yelped with pain and whirled on him, her hands forming into claws.

She swiped at one of them, but another caught her hands and pinned them behind her back. Rose looked from one smirking face to another. There were four of them, far more than she could fight off, and she doubted that anyone would come to her aid. But she had to try.

She kicked out, catching one of her attackers in the shin. He yelped, then slapped her. Rose's head snapped back. Recovering, she spat at him, knowing even as she did that it was a bad idea. He retaliated, hitting her in the jaw. Rose saw stars, but did not go down.

As the drunkest one in the group reached for the top buttons of her dress, another voice came echoing through the darkness. "What's going on?"

The others turned to see who it was. Rose couldn't quite make out the face, but the voice sounded familiar.

"Robert," one of the men said, loosening his grip on Rose. "Come join us. This uppity nigger bitch was trying to pass for white. Think we ought to teach her a lesson?"

Rose bristled furiously at the insult, kicking out at the distracted man. Her foot found his knee, and he collapsed in a heap. His friends laughed uproariously as he slowly got to his feet, favoring his injured leg.

"I think you'd better let her go," Robert said, coming closer. "She obviously doesn't want to be with you."

Rose heard the northern accent and was heartened. Maybe this wasn't one of the rednecks who'd been harassing them. Maybe, for once, her attackers would behave in a civilized manner. _And maybe pigs will fly, _she thought, as they laughed derisively.

"Come on. You've managed to drink us all under the table. Surely you're man enough to take her."

"I don't need to prove my manhood by raping a defenseless woman. Now, let go of her." His voice brooked no arguments.

Rose was suddenly concerned for her unexpected rescuer. The men holding her back were drunk, and were no doubt used to fighting. And there were four of them.

"Let go of her, or you'll have two people against you instead of just one."

"Two?" the man that Rose had kicked in the knee looked confused, his drink-addled mind not comprehending what was being said.

"She's already proven that she doesn't want to be with you, and put some hurt into you. Do you really want to fight two of us?"

One of them laughed. "There's four of us, and two of you. You wouldn't last a minute."

"I think I would." Rose watched, shocked, as her rescuer drew a knife from his pocket and opened the blade. "You want to fight?"

Cowards to the last, Rose's attackers backed off, not wanting to chance getting stabbed. One of them started casually down the alley.

"Come on. She's not worth it." His friends hurried after him, turning to glower at Robert before disappearing around the corner.

"Are you all right?" Robert asked her, as Rose leaned shakily against the wall, her fingers exploring her sore jaw. She would have a bruise in the morning.

"Yes, yes. I'm fine. Thank you," she told him.

"Do you need any help?" He came closer, looking at her with concern, and Rose saw his face for the first time.

Her mouth dropped open, gaping in shock, as she recognized Robert Calvert. What was he doing in New Orleans?

He recognized her at the same moment. "Rose? What the hell?"


	36. The Singer 3

Chapter Thirty-Six

Robert and Rose stared at each other in shock. Rose found her voice first.

"Robert, what are you doing in New Orleans?"

"I'm an actor in one of the theaters. What are you doing here? What were those 'gentlemen' talking about?"

Rose glanced around quickly, not wanting anyone to overhear. There was no one about, but she still didn't trust the area.

"Come with me," she told him, slipping back around the corner and heading in the direction of her hotel.

Robert hesitated a moment, then followed her.

When they reached the hotel, Rose had Robert follow her to her room. No one looked askance at her for doing so. Few people were about, and the hotel was not known for its high standards.

Once inside, Rose and Robert sat down on the narrow, sagging bed. Rose ran her hands through her hair, trying to think of how to explain this latest mess.

"What in God's name are you doing?" Robert demanded, noticing Rose's nervous gestures, along with the traces of darkening makeup still left on her face.

"Keep your voice down," she cautioned him. "The walls are thin."

"All right. What are you doing?"

"I...ah...I'm making a living, and trying to promote equal rights."

"Uh...okay." Robert looked at her strangely. He hadn't heard about her efforts before, and had only happened upon her that night because he had accompanied a fellow actor to the bar that he had met Rose's harassers in. His friend had left earlier, and he had stayed for one last drink before leaving.

"How, exactly, are you accomplishing this? Why did they think you were 'trying to pass for white'?"

"Well..." Rose twisted her hands nervously. "I met this man one day when I had been in New Orleans about two weeks. His name is Tom DeWitt, and he's a Negro. White women and Negro men are not supposed to really associate around here, but I came up with the idea for a business venture that would benefit both of us. He has a banjo, which he plays very well, and I can sing, so I proposed that we work together as street performers. However, with the way the laws are, we couldn't work together without him, and possibly me, getting arrested. So, I decided to pose as his octoroon granddaughter. I just dyed my hair black again, and put on a little makeup. It's fooled a lot of people, including the 'gentlemen' who attacked me in that alley." She rubbed her sore jaw, thinking. "I soon realized that being 'colored' meant that I couldn't go a lot of places, do a lot of things. Even though all I had to do was take off my makeup to be considered white, I just didn't think that it was fair. So, I started singing about freedom and rights and such, and even made up some new verses, and new songs. A few people have borrowed my songs, at this one establishment that is big on equality. A few people even joined us in our campaign, but that ended when the police arrested all of us. Tom and I are working on our own again. The men who attacked me have been harassing us for days. Sometimes people get the police to remove us from the street, but a lot of times the police don't care. So they take the time to harass us themselves."

Robert shook his head. "You're going to get yourself in trouble."

"I already get into trouble. At least this way it's worth it." She glanced at him nervously, wondering what his response would be. Would he blow her cover? Reject her for her activities?

Robert looked pensive for a moment. Then, he started to laugh.

"What's so funny?" Rose demanded, insulted.

"You never cease to amaze me, Rose. I'll solve the mystery of you yet."

Rose smiled, recognizing the humor in the situation. For all that her life was filled with trials and tribulations, it was never dull.

Robert stopped laughing. "Where else have you been? Just here? Or did you join that Shakespeare troupe? You disappeared without a trace. No one knew what had happened. We thought you might have ended up like Alice..."

"What happened to Alice?" Rose demanded. Something in Robert's voice told her that whatever it was, it wasn't good.

"She's dead. Didn't you hear?"

Rose stared at him, stunned. "No. No, I didn't hear. What happened?"

"She was murdered. Her body was found in an alley a few blocks from the theater. She'd been strangled. No one knows who killed her. It was reported that a wealthy-looking gentleman was seen running from the alley, but the man who reported that was drunk, so no one really believes him."

Rose shook her head, still stunned. She knew that the drunk had been right, that a wealthy gentleman had run from the alley. Remembering what had happened her last night in New York, she knew that Cal had been responsible for Alice's death. She knew that she should say something, speak out, but fear held her back. Cal had tried to kill her, too, and she feared that if he found her, he would finally succeed at what he had attempted that night.

"Gabe took off the day after the funeral. He said that he was going to California, which I guess is about as far as you can get from New York without leaving the country. We tried to talk him out of it, but there was no dissuading him. I hope he made it, wherever he is. I haven't heard from him since."

"Is that why you left New York?"

He shook his head. "I would have stayed, and continued working in the theater, but early in February it caught fire from bad wiring and burnt to the ground, leaving us all out of jobs. No one was hurt—it started after everyone had left—but we no longer had a place to work. I guess I could have gotten a job with another theater in New York, but with Alice and Gabe gone, I didn't see much point in hanging around. Those two were like my family, and without them, and without a job, there was no reason to stay. I wandered around for a bit, and then got a job in a theater here. I've been here for about eight months now."

Rose tried to take all this in—the shocking news of Alice's death, Robert's sudden re-entry into her life, the way she had lived her own life since leaving New York. She had done some things that she would always regret, but she had carried on. Life now was not easy, but it was worthwhile.

"Where have you been, all this time?" Robert wanted to know.

"I...I joined the Shakespeare troupe. I left the day after the last performance of the year in the Baker Theater."

"So you've been traveling around the country, acting. Why did you leave?"

"I got into a little...trouble...in San Francisco. I was asked to leave."

"What happened?"

Rose shook her head. "I'd rather not talk about it. At least, not now." Maybe someday she'd be able to talk about the fact that she had killed someone, but now the memory was still too fresh, too painful. Marietta had only been dead for two and a half months.

"Why did you come here?"

"I'd been to New Orleans before, and liked it. So, I came here."

"And became a street performer."

"After about two weeks. I tried to find a regular job, but was unsuccessful. So, I used a little...creativity."

Robert pulled out his pocket watch. It was growing late.

"You've been living here?" He gestured around the room.

"Yes. For the past three weeks."

"This place is a slum."

Rose scowled at him. "Street performers don't make a lot of money, especially when they spend most of their time raising controversy. I'm doing the best I can."

"I know you are, but still—"

"Robert." He turned to look at her. "My life isn't bad. I may not be living in luxury, but I'm satisfied with what I'm doing. In spite of everything, I'm glad for where life has sent me."

"You're a strong woman, Rose Dawson." He paused. "Since we're both in New Orleans, and we are old friends, why don't we get together sometime?"

Rose smiled. "Sure. I'd like that." She looked at him teasingly. "But don't think that you are going to solve 'the mystery of Rose'."

"Oh, I'm going to try," he teased her back. "I love solving a good puzzle."

"Oh, is that all I am? A puzzle?" Rose laughed.

"Hmm..."

"Oh, shut up." They both started laughing. Rose had forgotten how much fun it was to be around Robert.

"Well, I'd better be going," Robert told her, standing. "Where and when should I meet you?"

"Meet me at the American tomorrow night at seven. That's the place that supports equality." She quickly told him where it was, and how to get there.

"All right. I'll see you then." He headed for the door.

"Robert." He turned. "I'm sorry about Alice. I know that you thought of her as a sister."

"Thank you. In spite of everything, she was your friend, too."

"Yes. She was. I hope wherever she is, she's found peace. She never really had it here."

"I hope so, too."

Impulsively, Rose hugged him. "Well, good night."

"Good night, Rose. Good luck, be careful, and stay out of trouble."

She smiled. "I'll try."

Rose closed the door behind him. Sinking down on her bed, she closed her eyes tiredly, her mind still whirling with the events of the day.


	37. The Singer 4

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Robert met with Tom and Rose at the American the following evening. Rose maintained her disguise. Even in the relatively liberal atmosphere of the establishment, she still felt that it was better to be safe than sorry. Robert had no such problems. As a white man, he was in a position of relative power and status in the South, even if he was a Northerner. Despite the fact that the Civil War had ended nearly fifty years before, many of the old prejudices and tensions remained.

Robert was somewhat surprised by Tom's intelligence and well-spokenness. He, like many Northerners, had had relatively little exposure to Negroes. Although Robert had traveled more than many people of his time, and had seen more than many, he had rarely been to the South before he came to New Orleans, and, in the early twentieth century, the majority of the United States' Negro population still lived in the South. Even after he had moved to New Orleans, he had resided in a mostly white area, and had worked in a white theater. While Robert, an indefatigable wanderer, had traveled throughout much of New Orleans, he hadn't seen it from the same perspective as Rose and Tom, and had a different viewpoint. The evening was an eye-opener for him.

In the open, relaxed atmosphere of the American, people of all races—not just Negro and white, but others as well—mingled freely. In Robert's experience, much of the interaction between the races was in the form of employer and employee, with the employer usually being white and the minority the employee. In this establishment, people of all races worked and relaxed together, with employees serving food and drinks and performing on the stage, and patrons mixing freely. Yet, even here, there were boundaries, and most people sat in unvarying groups. They tolerated each other, but the groups often remained separate. Still, some people did cross the boundaries, and there were few raised eyebrows at the mixed group of Tom, Robert, and Rose.

Robert commented upon the fact that people acted much more naturally in this environment, with much less of the false behavior that so often characterized racial interaction in the city. Rose explained that in this establishment, many of society's rules were left outside. A white person could treat a Negro with respect without being looked down upon, and Negroes could drop the protective buffoon act. Many of the stereotypes regarding Negroes came from this protective act, which, Rose explained, often served as way of averting aggression. The racial boundaries in the South were deeply ingrained, with white people holding a position of power, and the buffoon act helped to avert aggression by making those in power laugh and mock those who performed it, and reduced social tensions by convincing them that they were, indeed, in their rightful position. It was an age-old form of adaptation, used for untold millennia by those at the bottom of the social pyramid to provide a margin of safety for themselves and the society in general. Still, it was not an absolute adaptation, and sometimes it backfired, with the stereotypes becoming so deeply ingrained that they became a cause for further aggression, rather than a way of preventing it. In addition, many of the adaptive behaviors were difficult to maintain, being offensive, unnatural, or unworkable. The adaptive behaviors, and the stereotypes, changed over time, for all levels of society. But change came hard, and it would take a more receptive social climate than the one currently in place to make real change.

The three sat around a small table, talking and eating, late into the night. Rose proudly announced which songs she and Tom had devised, when several singers, both Negro and white, got up on the stage and performed a number of different songs. Their subtle, and sometimes not-so-subtle, protest songs had been adopted by people with similar views, and their continued performance helped keep the ideals alive.

As the weeks passed, and the mild New Orleans winter turned to spring, Robert and Rose spent a great deal of time together. They often met at the American in the evening, sometimes accompanied by Tom, whom Robert had developed a lot of respect for. He thought well of Rose's "grandfather," and, after a couple of weeks, took to joining them on the streets when they were performing. The amount of harassment dropped precipitously after this, since people tended to be more respectful of the efforts of a white man than that of a Negro man and his granddaughter.

Robert got Rose a ticket to his play one night, and took her out to dinner afterward. Rose looked around the theater during the play, and noticed how small the audience was. She suspected that Robert would soon be looking for a new job.

There had been a not-so-subtle shift in their relationship. Both Robert and Rose had grown up in the fourteen months that they had been apart, and were able to pursue a more mature relationship. Robert no longer chased every girl in sight, growing bored and dropping them within a short time; instead he concentrated his efforts upon Rose. Rose, for her part, was much more secure, much more confident, than she had been before, and she was no longer grieving for someone she refused to mention.

Though she never spoke of Jack, she had come to accept the fact that he was gone, and she had to move on. Although a portion of her heart would always belong to Jack, she was ready to truly move on—and to love again. What she had experienced with Richard had been a part of that healing process, but now she was ready for a steady, loving relationship. She had never loved Richard, but as April passed, and the second anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic was remarked upon in the newspapers, she realized that she had grown to love Robert, and he her.

On April 16, 1914, Rose left the slum hotel she had been staying in and moved into Robert's small apartment. Rose was surprised when Robert insisted that they sleep apart—her experience with sharing living space with men had taught her that they wanted something from her—but soon realized that his insistence was out of respect for her. Though surprised, she was not offended, and they lived together semi-platonically until the beginning of May.

Early in May, Rose and Tom got a surprise when Tom was offered a job playing the banjo at the American. She was pleased for him—it was a great opportunity—but concerned about their street performing business. The American stayed open late, and few of its employees were to be found out and about during the day. Rose thought that she might be able to perform alone, singing a cappella, possibly with Robert working alongside her, but she still worried.

Robert offered her a surprising solution. His play had closed a few days earlier, and he was looking for something new to do. Much as he liked acting, he wanted a break, and came up with the most outrageous plan Rose had ever heard of.

Years earlier, Robert had briefly traveled to Alaska. Although he hadn't stayed long—just long enough to learn a bit about gold mining—he was now struck with the desire to return. Rose wasn't sure why—possibly it had to do with the fact that New Orleans was persistently warm and humid, and he wanted to go someplace a bit cooler.

The night after Tom had been offered the job at the American, and had accepted it, Robert and Rose met there to watch him play. There was no dearth of singers available, which was why Rose had not been offered a job. Tom had tried to insist that they be hired together, but Rose had insisted that that wasn't necessary, that he could take the job without her if need be. Tom had looked skeptical, and was concerned for what would happen to Rose, but he had finally given in.

Rose and Robert were listening to him play the banjo when Robert sprang the news on her that he wanted to leave.

"Have you ever been to Alaska?" Robert asked her suddenly, when the song was over.

Rose shook her head, puzzled. "No."

"Ever thought about going there?"

Rose shrugged. It had never really occurred to her. "Not really. Why?"

"I'm thinking of going there."

"Oh? When?"

"Next week."

"Next week!"

"Yes. I need a break from acting, and I want out of New Orleans. This place is too warm, and I was here last year, too. It's only going to get hotter."

"Do you plan on coming back?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Probably not."

"Guess I'd better find a new place to live, then." Rose acted calm, but inside she was hurt. What about the words of love he had spoken to her? Was he just going to up and leave her, as he had so many other women? Maybe she shouldn't have trusted him.

"Why don't you come with me?"

"Come with you? To Alaska? What would we do in Alaska?"

"I don't know...pan for gold in the rivers, hunt caribou, defend someone's rights..."

"Don't tease me."

"Sorry. But I'm serious. It would be an adventure. I've been to Alaska before, and it's a beautiful place. I bet you would like it, even if you are a city girl."

"I don't know...isn't this kind of sudden? How would we get there? What would we live on?"

"I have some money saved. There hasn't been much extra to spend money on. We would take a train from here to San Francisco, and take a ship up to Alaska—"

"A ship?!" Rose looked at him as if he had grown two heads.

"Yes. A ship. If you haven't been on one before, it can be kind of hard to get used to—the ship rocks you a lot, and some people get seasick—but it really isn't that bad."

"I've been on a ship before, and I've never been seasick." Just heartsick, after the last ship she had been on sank, and took the man she loved with it.

"What ship have you been on?"

"Oh, the Mauritania. I went on a trip on that one once." And it was true, she thought. She had crossed the ocean to Europe for that ill-fated trip on the Mauritania.

"Where did you go?"

"That's a secret."

Robert shook his head, grinning at her. "I'll solve your mystery yet. Let's see, you're an actress, you defend people's rights, you traveled on the Mauritania...this gets more interesting all the time."

"Hmmph." Rose scowled at him, half-jokingly.

"But what do you say? Do you want to come to Alaska with me?"

Rose sat back, considering. She wanted to go with him, but she didn't want to set foot on another ship. She also wasn't sure what she would do in Alaska. She had no idea how to pan for gold, or hunt caribou—not that she really had any taste for hunting anything. She didn't like killing. On the other hand, it would be an adventure, a chance to go somewhere that she had never been before, and see a side of life that she wasn't familiar with. And, she thought, it might be a good idea for her to get on a ship again, before the old fear crippled her. Most ships never hit icebergs, she reasoned, and most ocean trips ended successfully. Besides, she really had no reason to stay in New Orleans, no real way of making a living here.

"Okay, I'll go with you."

Robert was surprised at Rose's sudden acquiescence. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, trying to think of what to say. He had been prepared to argue with her further.

Rose giggled, earning a glare from Robert. She tried not smile, but he looked so comical with his mouth hanging open. Finally, he laughed, too.

"Great. When do you want to leave?"

"I don't have anything to do, really, except pack up my few belongings and say good-bye to Tom. How soon do you want to leave?"

"How about in two days? We have to get to Alaska by mid-June, or it will be too late in the year. The summers are short up there."

"That'll work. It'll give us time to pack, get train tickets, and tell the landlord we're leaving. But..." She waved a finger at him. "...I am not hunting any innocent caribou, and you'll have to teach me how to pan for gold. I am a city girl, after all."

He laughed. "I can teach you anything you need to know. Someone once said I would make a great teacher."

"You certainly taught some of those chorus girls in New York a thing or two," Rose told him sassily.

"Hey!"

Rose giggled, then raised her beer glass. "To adventure, whatever we might find."

Robert laughed, raising his glass as well. "Right!"

They clinked their glasses together, spilling beer on the table, and burst out laughing.


	38. The Singer 5

Chapter Thirty-Eight

May 5, 1914

Rose wandered slowly through the small apartment, checking to make sure they hadn't left anything behind. Although many of their possessions would be of little use to them in Alaska, they might prove helpful in the meantime, and they might be able to find a place to store them while they were traveling through the wilderness.

They had packed their bags the night before, and the landlord had already found new tenants for their apartment. Whether they wanted to go or not, they had to leave now. The new tenants would be there in the afternoon.

Their train was leaving at ten. Rose peered under the bed, making sure that nothing had been pushed under it, and checked the couch that Robert had insisted upon sleeping on. Everything had been packed.

Robert came in, checking his pocket watch. "It's almost 9:15. We should get going. Who knows how long it will take us to get to the train station?"

Rose nodded, picking up her bag. She had acquired very few possessions during her stay in New Orleans, since street performing was low-paying at best. She had little more than she had left San Francisco with in January.

"Ready?" Robert asked her, as he picked up his own belongings and walked with her to the door.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Rose told him, following him. She would miss New Orleans, in spite of the amount of trouble she had managed to get into. She had found a relative that she liked very much, and had enjoyed tweaking the establishment in her efforts to promote civil rights for all. Still, she loved Robert, and she wanted to go with him. Who knew, she might even like Alaska, and she could probably visit with Deborah again before they left San Francisco.

Robert hailed a cab, and they made their way through the city to the train station. Rose looked out the window the whole time, seeing the throngs of people, recognizing places she had visited and streets she had performed on. She had done a lot in New Orleans in three months.

As they reached the train station, Rose looked at Robert. He was beaming, his face alight with the joy of a new adventure. Rose couldn't help but smile. His enthusiasm was infectious. For all that she would miss New Orleans, she was looking forward to a new adventure, going to a place she had never been to before. She wasn't looking forward to traveling by ship, but she knew that eventually she had to get over her fear of ships, and traveling as part of a great adventure was probably the best way to do so.

They climbed out of the cab and got their baggage, making their way into the busy train station. A porter took their bags and placed them on the train, and they moved through the crowds in preparation for boarding.

As Rose moved toward the train, she saw a familiar figure at the back of the crowd. Checking the clock on the wall, she whispered to Robert and disappeared into the crowd.

Tom gestured discreetly to her, leading her around the corner into the alley. They stood at a safe distance from each other, so that passersby would think that each was making their own way through the alley, and would not realize that they were together.

"Ready to go to Alaska?" Tom asked her.

Rose nodded, realizing, not for the first time, how much she would miss her "grandfather." She had stopped by the American the night before to tell him that she was leaving in the morning, but they hadn't had time to talk, with all the people around and Tom being called up to the stage.

"Come on, Rose. Don't look so sad. You're setting off on an adventure. I'd go with you if I could. I've never been more than twenty miles from New Orleans."

"I wish you could come, too. But you've got family here, and friends, and a good job."

"That's right. And you and your boyfriend don't really want an old man around to keep an eye on you, anyway."

"You're not old, and Robert and I are perfectly capable of chaperoning ourselves. I'm nineteen years old, you know."

"I remember being nineteen. You're at the top of the world and you know everything. Five or ten years down the road, you look back and realize how young you were."

"Well...I guess I'll find out in time."

"You will. Now, behave yourself, and stay out of trouble."

Rose gave him a mock scowl. "You take all the fun out of life."

He laughed. "Trust me, 'granddaughter', it's good advice."

"I know. I'll try." She looked around quickly. No one was watching, so she hurried forward and gave Tom a quick hug. "Bye, Uncle Tom."

"You mean Grandfather Tom."

Rose looked at him. "No, uncle. Reginald DeWitt was my great-grandfather. My mother is Ruth DeWitt Bukater."

"You're Ruth's daughter? How is she?"

Rose shook her head. "I don't know. I haven't seen her since I left home almost two years ago."

"Was she well then?"

"Yes. But she was a widow, and she was looking to marry me off to pay her debts. I didn't care for the prospective groom, so I left." She hesitated. "Last I heard, my ex-fiancé's father had taken a fancy to her." She sighed. "I hope she's well."

"So you left home, leaving her to fend for herself, Rose DeWitt Bukater."

Rose shook her head. "I can't go back now. It's...been too long. I just hope she's all right."

"Your mother was one of the strongest people I ever met. She defied local society and married a Yankee. She even befriended my daughter when she was a little girl. She was determined to have her way, against all odds."

Rose looked at him in surprise, unable to imagine her mother doing anything that society would not approve of. Then, she thought again. Her mother, for all that she cared about appearances, was indeed strong-willed and stubborn. She had nearly pushed Rose into a disastrous marriage, and had carried on after her husband's death.

"So you're their little girl," Tom commented, pulling Rose from her thoughts. "Rose DeWitt Bukater."

She shook her head. "Not anymore. I stopped being her when I left home."

"I think you still are her. You're a lot like your mother—strong, stubborn, determined—and to hazard a guess, you were that way before you left home."

Rose nodded. He was right. She had been. She remembered how she had defied Cal, defied her mother, defied society itself to be with Jack on the Titanic. She had even fought against a sinking ship, and the bitter chill of the North Atlantic, to be with him.

"You're right," she admitted, wondering at his perceptiveness, that he had recognized something about her that she had never recognized about herself.

Robert came around the corner. "Rose, come on. The train's about to leave."

Rose turned to Tom one last time. "Well, I guess this is it. Good luck," she told him.

"Same to you."

"I'll write whenever I get a chance."

"You know where to find me." He stopped. "Remember, Rose, you're always welcome in New Orleans. If you ever come back, look me up."

"I will." Robert was gesturing impatiently, and Rose hurried to follow him, turning once to wave to Tom before she disappeared around the corner.

Robert and Rose got on the train just as it was beginning to move. They gave their tickets to the conductor and settled back in their seats. Robert reached for Rose's hand, and she gave him a smile.

As the train picked up speed, and made its way out of New Orleans, Rose looked out the window, watching another phase of her life fade into the past. She looked back at Robert.

Another phase of her life was ending, but this time she wasn't running away, and this time she wasn't going alone.


	39. The Adventurer 1

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Two days later, Rose turned to Robert in puzzlement. The train seemed to be heading in the direction of Iowa, rather than California.

"Where are we going?" she asked him, somewhat suspiciously.

"Eventually, Alaska."

"But where are we going now? This isn't the way to California."

Robert looked a little sheepish. "I guess I forgot to tell you."

"Forgot to tell me what?"

"We're making a slight detour."

Rose frowned. "To where?"

"Cedar Rapids, Iowa."

"Why, and what's in Cedar Rapids?"

"I have some relatives there."

"You sure did forget to tell me."

He sighed. "All right. Let me explain."

"Go on."

"I'm originally from Cedar Rapids—that's where my mother was from—and I was born there. I still have some cousins there. When my parents were traveling actors, they would sometimes take the opportunity to go there, and I knew my cousins growing up. However, I haven't been back there since the summer of 1906, when I stopped there on the way east. Since we're heading west anyway, I thought it would be a good idea to stop and see my cousins."

"You've mentioned being on your own after the San Francisco earthquake in 1906. What happened?"

"The earth shook."

"And?"

"The city burned down in places."

"And?"

"Our theater troupe was there—staying in a brick hotel."

"And it fell in?"

"Yes."

"So how did you get out?"

"I was sharing a room with my parents and little sister. She was seven, and afraid of the dark, monsters, dogs, and nightmares. She'd had a nightmare, and was hiding under her bed crying. Our folks were sleeping soundly, but I woke up, and tried to talk her out from under her bed. She wouldn't come out until I crawled under there with her and talked to her. She crawled out eventually, but I was too big, and I got stuck. I was trying to get out from under there when the earthquake struck. The building collapsed, but I was still safely under the bed. I got out before the fire came, but only five members of the troupe survived, out of eleven. Unfortunately, my parents and sister weren't among the survivors. I spent about three days on the streets of San Francisco—not an experience I really want to repeat. I left after that."

"Have you ever been back to San Francisco?"

"No."

"It looks much better now. I was there for a few months. My friend Deborah was injured in the earthquake—she's in a wheelchair now—but her family survived. I'll introduce you to them when we get to San Francisco."

"All right."

"Where did you go after you left San Francisco?"

"East, first with the remaining members of the theater troupe, and then, after the group split up, on my own. I spent the summer with my cousins in Iowa, and then took off on my own again. There's a lot of interesting places out there. I finally settled down in New York City when I was eighteen, and went to work for Norman Baker's theater. After it burned down, I joined a friend from another theater, and we went down to New Orleans and started acting there."

"And then you met up with me, and your play closed, and now you're on your way to Alaska."

"Yeah. I guess I'm a bit of a wanderer."

Rose laughed. "You're not the only one."

"No, I guess not. You've seen a lot of country, too." He gave her a teasing look. "You've even been on the Mauritania."

Rose gave him a look of mock annoyance. "And I've been to New York, and Boston, and Philadelphia, and Pittsburgh, and—"

"And New Orleans, and just about everywhere else, too."

"Not quite. I haven't been to Antarctica yet."

"Well, I guess that'll have to be our next stop after Alaska."

Rose looked at him, not sure if he was serious or not. The she laughed. "Let's brave Alaska first. At there's some civilization there."

"City girl."

"Wanderer."

They laughed, looking out the window as the train headed north toward Iowa.

Robert and Rose arrived in Cedar Rapids after a couple more days. The train pulled into the station about mid-afternoon. They got off, Rose looking around curiously. She had spent time in the country before, but she had never been to Iowa.

Cedar Rapids was a small town, at least compared to many of the cities she had seen, but Robert told her that it was actually larger than many of the tiny mid-western towns. It had a thriving cereal-processing industry, thanks to the large amount of farming done in the region, and was especially well-known for its oatmeal processing.

It was still early in the warming season for the area, but it was a sunny afternoon, and green grass and flowers were in evidence as they walked through the streets, looking for a hotel.

After they had found a place to stay, they left their belongings behind and walked toward the outskirts of town, where Robert's relatives lived. Robert introduced her to his Aunt Nancy and his cousins Edith and Henry, and explained that his Uncle Roger was working in one of the mills. After they had visited for a while, set out toward the home of his cousin George, who had married two years earlier.

George wasn't home, but his wife, Celeste, welcomed them and invited them to stay until George returned home from work. She offered them coffee, and they talked about the happenings in Cedar Rapids since Robert had left. Robert was surprised by Celeste's appearance—he remembered her as a skinny fourteen-year-old tomboy, but she'd grown up and married his cousin. He explained to Rose that Celeste had insisted upon tagging along after them when he and his cousin had gone roaming around the area as boys, and she had been capable of keeping up with them, and even matching them in rough-housing. They all laughed when he related a story about the time he and George had caught a snake, planning upon scaring her with it—only to be surprised when Celeste showed up with an even bigger snake that she had caught herself.

George arrived home around 6:30, and Rose and Celeste stared as the two thumped each other on the back and yelled raucously. George was twenty-five, a year older than Robert, and both still acted like children when the opportunity presented itself.

Robert and Rose stayed for dinner, and left around eight o'clock to return to their hotel. Though they had shared an apartment in New Orleans, Robert had gotten separate rooms for them in the hotel, because certain behaviors that might be overlooked in a large city would be frowned upon in a small mid-western town.

Robert seemed unusually nervous as they walked back to the hotel. Rose asked him what was on his mind, but he told her to wait and find out. Rose looked at him strangely.

When they reached the hotel, Robert looked around to be sure that no one was watching, and then ushered Rose into his room. Rose wondered what he had in mind.

He paced back and forth nervously for a moment before turning to her. Rose sat on the edge of his bed, watching him calmly.

"Rose..." he began. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Rose, we've known each other for quite a while..."

Rose nodded, puzzled. He went on.

"We've even lived together, and worked together, and now we're traveling together..."

"Yes. What's this all about?"

"Well, I...I've told you before that I love you..."

"Yes?"

"Well, what do you say?"

"About what?"

He slapped his forehead. "I knew I'd mess this up."

"Mess what up?" Rose was growing ever more confused.

He pulled a small box from his pocket. "Rose, I was wondering if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife," he spoke in rush, relieved to have the words out.

Rose stared at him in surprise. She couldn't have been more astonished if he had suggested that they fly to Alaska. The thought of marriage had never occurred to her. A rush of emotions ran through her—love, fear, regret, sorrow, uncertainty...

"Robert, I—" She stopped as he opened the box, revealing a gold ring with a small garnet.

"I know it's not the fanciest thing in the world, but..."

"It's lovely," Rose interrupted him. She clutched her skirt nervously. "Robert, I..." She stopped, thinking.

She loved him, she really did, but was she ready for marriage? She remembered her close escape from marriage to Cal, and how terrified that she had been that he would find her and force her into the marriage. Of course, Robert was nothing like Cal. Where Cal had been cruel and brutal, Robert was loving and gentle. People liked Robert for himself, not for his fortune, as they had with Cal.

She thought of Jack, and the few days they had had together—the most wonderful days of her life. It should have been Jack asking her for her hand in marriage, but it wasn't. It never would be.

She thought of her mother, of her mother's stunned face as Rose had turned and run back down the aisle at her wedding to Cal. She remembered how her mother had counted upon Rose's marriage to Cal to solve their financial problems, and how Rose had decided that it wasn't worth it.

She thought of Richard, and of Marietta, and of all the things she had done that Robert didn't know about. And then she thought of Robert himself, and the joy that she found in his presence, and she thought of the future they could have together.

And with that, Rose made up her mind. She looked at Robert.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, Robert, I will marry you."

Robert smiled, and slipped the ring on her finger.


	40. The Adventurer 2

Chapter Forty

Robert and Rose left Cedar Rapids two days later, after Robert had visited with all of his relatives and introduced his fiancée. Rose shocked several of them by dyeing her hair back to red the afternoon before they left.

At last, they boarded the train and headed west again, this time going straight toward California. Rose was quiet that morning, her thoughts turned inward.

She had initially been amused at the Calverts' reaction to her dyeing her hair, but their shock forced her to face the reality of what she was doing. She and Robert came from two different worlds. If his family had been so shocked by a simple change of appearance, what would Robert think if he knew her for she really was?

Rose gazed out the window, remembering all the events that had brought her to this moment. She had done some things that she regretted, that she was sorry for, and some of the things she didn't regret were still looked down upon by society.

                Rose sighed inwardly, knowing that the time had come to tell Robert about at least part of her past. She couldn't comfortably enter into marriage with him without him knowing where she had been and what she had done. If her past was discovered, it could destroy both of them, and she couldn't live a lie.

Rose turned to Robert. His head rested against the back of the seat as he dozed, snoring softly. Rose shook his arm.

"Not now, Mom," he mumbled, pushing her hand away.

Ordinarily, Rose would have laughed, but she was too anxious about his response to even smile. "Robert," she hissed, shaking his shoulder. "Wake up! We need to talk."

"Huh? What?" He opened his eyes, looking at her blearily. "Oh, Rose. What did you say?"

"I said, we need to talk."

"About what?"

"About...about...there's some things you don't know about me."

Robert's face immediately took on a teasing look. "So, you're finally going to tell me about the mysterious Rose?"

"I'm serious, Robert."

"Sorry. What did you want to tell me?"

"It's...there's a lot of things you don't know about me."

"Such as?"

"I...you may want to rescind your offer of marriage after you hear this. If you do, I'll understand. I've done some...pretty unacceptable things in the past couple of years."

"What did you do?"

Rose took a deep breath. "I'll start at the beginning. I ran away from home. My mother had gotten me engaged to a man who was...unkind, and I left him at the altar. I haven't seen my mother in almost two years, not since I left home."

"Was that the ex-fiancé that Alice mentioned? The one who had a liking for redheads?"

Rose nodded. "Yes. There was something...something wrong with him."

"So you left home, came to New York, and eventually became an actress." He paused. "There's a lot of actresses who start out as runaways. Acting is not generally considered to be a proper profession for young ladies."

"You can say that again." Rose wondered what her mother would have thought if she could have seen Rose up on a stage, pretending to be someone else. Doubtless she would have been scandalized, as well as her wealthy friends, by Rose's success in a profession that was often considered little better than prostitution.

"That doesn't sound so shocking. At least you were willing to work hard, and excel at your chosen career. It sounds like you had a good reason for leaving home, and you are much more stable than Alice ever was."

Rose winced inside, thinking about the months with Cal, about how she had sold herself to keep her mother and herself out of poverty. She wasn't really any better than Alice. She was just more respectable—and more stable.

"That's another thing. I'm not...not really...an innocent, if you get my meaning."

"You mean you're not a virgin."

"No, I'm not." She hesitated. "There's been a couple of men in my life." She stopped, not wanting to discuss Cal, or Jack, or Richard, or the baby she had lost almost two years before.

He arched an eyebrow. "Is that why you acted so surprised when I didn't try to invite myself into your bed when we were living in New Orleans?"

Rose blushed. "Well...ah...I..."

Robert laughed lightly at her expression. "Your past relationships with men don't bother me...as long as you don't plan to go bed-hopping after we're married."

Rose's mouth dropped open. "I've never gone bed-hopping!" As soon as she said it, she knew that it wasn't quite true. She had gone from Cal to Jack in a matter of days, although, she thought, that didn't really count, since she had never been willing with Cal. "I'm not Alice!"

Robert laughed, but sobered when Rose glowered at him. She took a deep breath.

"There's more."

Robert looked at her. "You have led an interesting life."

Rose sighed. Interesting didn't begin to describe it. "I...when the theater troupe was in San Francisco—"

"Does this have something to do with the fact that you were asked to leave?"

"Yes." Rose eyed him balefully, irritated at his interruption.

"So what happened?"

"I killed someone."

Robert stared at her in shock, at a loss for words. Finally, he sputtered, "Who? How—why did you kill someone?"

Rose felt cold inside, knowing that she had just destroyed their relationship. But he probably would have found out anyway, since they were going to San Francisco, and there were undoubtedly people there who remembered her, and what she had done. How much worse would it have been if he had found out about her crime from someone else, and known that she had kept it from him?

"I didn't mean to kill her," Rose told him, wanting desperately for him to understand, even if they parted ways at the next train station and never saw each other again.

"Her?"

"Marietta Scott. She was a minor actress with the Shakespeare troupe, who was bitterly jealous of my role as leading lady, and of my relationship with the leading man. She wanted to be the leading lady herself, but she lacked talent. She finally got the leading man, after we split up, but Marietta could never quite forgive me for usurping her desired status in the troupe. My friend Evelyn always advised me to turn the other cheek, and she was right, since responding to Marietta's taunts and dirty tricks only made things worse, but it's hard to be charitable to someone like that. On the last night before the troupe was to go on break for a month, Marietta came into the dressing room after everyone else had gone. She started making rude remarks, calling me a slut, and something just snapped. I responded in kind, and the next thing I knew, we were fighting. The director, Harry Parsons, heard the fight and came to break it up, but when Marietta paused to look at him, I didn't think. I just gave her a shove. She fell against a cabinet, and broke her neck." Rose shuddered, remembering the still form of her former co-actress. She rubbed her temples, only then realizing that her face was streaked with tears. "I didn't mean to kill her, Robert. Please believe me. It was an accident."

Robert stared at her, still stunned by her confession. He never would have thought her capable of killing anyone. "What—what happened after that? Did you go to jail?"

Rose nodded. "Yes. I spent a few weeks there, until the lawyer that my friend's husband had hired convinced the jury that what had happened was self-defense, and I was freed." She paused, taking a deep breath. "Maybe they should have let me rot."

"But if it was an accident..."

Rose shook her head, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "I committed the worst crime that a person can commit—I took someone else's life away from them. Life is the most precious thing a person can have, and I took it from Marietta in a moment of angry carelessness. I wish it hadn't happened. I would bring her back if I could."

"But you can't."

"No, I can't. I'll have to live with what I did for the rest of my life." She quieted as the next stop was announced. Taking a deep breath, she continued, "You go on to Alaska, and have a good time, and enjoy the wilderness. I'll get off here." She reached for her bag.

Robert stayed her hand. "Rose...I'll admit that I'm shocked by what you've told me—but I believe you. I don't think you killed her on purpose, and I think that your own...remorse...is more than enough punishment." Rose looked at him, wiping the tears from her eyes, trying to compose herself. "You can get off here if you want—but I'd rather you stayed. I still want you to be my wife—if you want to be."

"I do." Rose looked at him. "But can you live with me?"

"I think there is such a thing as forgiveness, and moving on from the past. It's easiest if it's someone you love."

"It is," Rose agreed. She looked at her bag one last time, then shoved it back out of the way. "I'm staying."

She threw her arms around him, hiding her face against his shoulder as the train came to a stop and people began to exit. "Thank you, Robert."

"For what?"

"For...for just...being you."

Robert held her in his arms, not having to ask this time what she meant. He knew.


	41. The Adventurer 3

Chapter Forty-One

The train arrived in San Francisco two days later. Robert and Rose found an inexpensive hotel, booked passage on the next ship heading for Alaska—in three days—and took a trolley to Deborah's neighborhood.

Robert was openly impressed. "Nob Hill! Your friend must be rich."

"She is," Rose agreed. "Her father's in manufacturing—he's the owner—and her husband is one of the partners in the business."

"How did someone like you meet someone like her?"

"What do you mean?" Rose was slightly offended.

"Well, you're an actress. You move from place to place. You don't have much money..."

"We were childhood friends."

"Before you ran away from home."

"Right."

"Did your family have money, too?"

"We did. Then it disappeared."

"Money talks. It says good-bye," Robert quipped.

Rose laughed. "Exactly!"

"Let me guess. That was where the groom that you left at the altar came in."

"You're too perceptive for your own good," Rose told him. "Maybe I should silence you."

"How?"

Rose thought a minute. "This might work." She threw her arms around him and kissed him before he could say another word.

A small child behind them tugged at his mother's sleeve. "Look, Mommy! Those people are kissing! Ew!"

Rose and Robert broke apart, a little sheepishly. "What were we talking about?" Robert asked her teasingly.

"I knew I could silence you!" Rose teased back.

The trolley came to a stop, and they got off. Rose led the way in the direction of Deborah's home, Robert gazing at all the expensive houses, gardens, and cars.

When they got there, Rose rang the doorbell and waited. The housekeeper answered the door.

"Miss DeWitt Bukater! Come in. I will tell Mrs. Hutchison that you're here."

"Miss DeWitt Bukater?" Robert looked at her questioningly.

Rose blushed. "I...ah...sort of changed my name when I left home."

"Where did you come up with the name Dawson?"

"I just heard it somewhere, and decided to use it."

Deborah came down the hall, neatly maneuvering her wheelchair around furnishings. A small dog followed her, yapping at the visitors.

"Rosie!" Deborah cried, holding out her arms. "You decided to come back! I didn't think we'd see you again, after what happened."

Rose gave her friend a hug. The dog circled her, sniffing at her feet and dress, then jumped into Deborah's lap.

"It's good to see you, Debbie."

Deborah noticed Robert. "Who's this, Rose?" She looked at her friend slyly.

"Deborah, I would like you to meet my fiancé, Robert Calvert."

Robert stepped forward and shook Deborah's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Hutchison."

"Please, call me Debbie. All my friends do." She looked at both of them. "Won't you come into the parlor? I'll have Mrs. Bloomfield make some tea—or would you rather have coffee?" She looked at Robert.

"Coffee, please," Robert told her.

Deborah quickly made her way into the kitchen to give the cook her order, while Rose led Robert to the parlor. While they waited, they discussed their wedding.

"When should we get married?" Robert asked.

"I'd like to get married before we leave San Francisco. Maybe two days from now?"

"It won't be a very big wedding."

"We don't know very many people anyway. Do you know anyone here?"

"Not anymore."

"I only know Deborah and her family. Would you mind if I invited them?"

"Go ahead. Weddings are more a bride's thing anyway."

Deborah came into the parlor, Mrs. Bloomfield in tow. The cook set a tray of coffee and tea on the table, and another tray containing cookies and sandwiches. She left the three alone.

Deborah wheeled herself up to the table. The dog followed her, then gave her a dejected look when she pointed in the direction of a large cushion in the corner. The animal curled up, eyeing the visitors.

Rose stared at her friend. Deborah's loose dress had bunched up behind her, revealing a now-swelling middle. Rose looked at her questioningly.

Deborah saw where Rose was looking and blushed slightly. Then she smiled.

"Debbie, are you—"

"—going to have a baby? Yes. In September."

"Is Will happy about it?"

"Very. So is Mother. She never thought she would get any grandchildren."

"Aren't you worried about the birth? I mean, with you crippled and everything." Rose remembered her own miscarriage, how painful it had been—and she had been strong and healthy.

Deborah shook her head. "I have a good doctor, and if anything goes wrong, he has already said that he will perform a Cesarean section."

"What's that?"

"Its an operation where they cut the mother open and take the baby out."

Rose shuddered. Deborah laughed at her reaction.

"It'll be fine." She looked at Robert, who was drinking coffee and watching them in amusement. "When are you two getting married?"

"In two days," Rose told her.

"Two days!"

"We're heading for Alaska in three days," Robert explained.

Deborah arched one eyebrow in amusement. "You planned the honeymoon before you chose the wedding date?"

"Actually," Rose explained, "it isn't quite a honeymoon. We're going on a...an adventure."

"What are you going to do up there?"

"Pan for gold, hunt caribou...whatever happens to present itself. Isn't that what adventure is all about?" Robert asked.

"I wish I could visit there, although I pity the caribou."

"He's hunting caribou," Rose told her. "I'm not killing anything."

"Not on purpose, anyway."

There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Rose spoke up.

"Debbie, we would be honored if you and Will, and your parents, were present at our wedding."

"I'd be glad to come." Deborah paused, then added, laughing, "Can I be your matron of honor?"

"Of course!"

Deborah pushed back from the table.

"Where are you going?" Rose asked.

"I'm going to call Mother, and Will if I can get through to him. Mother can tell Father." She wheeled herself into the hall.

Rose and Robert followed her. Rose wondered how Deborah was going to make her calls—the phone was out of her reach. Her question was answered as Deborah wheeled herself up to a table beside the phone. Gripping the arms of the wheelchair, she flung herself out of it, catching herself with her hands on the edge of the table. Using her arms for leverage, she boosted herself onto the table, and leaned toward the phone.

Rose was amazed. Deborah had incredible upper body strength, honed by the years of having to wheel herself around. She perched on the table and spoke into the receiver.

"Operator, please connect me with Belinda Hill." A moment later, she began to speak enthusiastically into the phone.

"Mother? It's Deborah." A pause. "Rose is back, and she's getting married. His name is Robert Calvert." There was another pause. "They're getting married in two days." Rose could hear Belinda shouting. Deborah listened patiently. "Yes, Mother, I'm sure that you can. I'm sure she'll be very pleased." She listened for a moment more. "All right. We'll see you in a few minutes."

She hung up the phone, and turned to Rose and Robert. "As I'm sure you heard, Mother was yelling. She's upset because you didn't give her more notice. She doesn't know how she's going to make your wedding dress in two days, but she supposes she'll manage."

"My wedding dress? Debbie, she doesn't have to make me a dress."

"Don't spoil her fun, Rosie. You know she's always loved making dresses for the two of us. She made my wedding gown."

"Well...all right. I didn't really have a wedding dress anyway."

"Good. She'll be here in a few minutes to get started."

Rose groaned. When Belinda Hill got started on a project, nothing could stop her.

Deborah laughed. "Why don't you go finish your tea? I still need to call Will."

"Are you going to need help getting down from there?"

"No, I can manage. If I get stuck, I'll yell."

They went back into the parlor to wait. Rose was quiet, thinking. She was happy for Deborah. Her friend had everything—a wonderful husband, a beautiful home, and family who loved her, and now she had a baby on the way. Rose sipped at her tea, her mind full of thoughts of her own future.

Her own life wasn't so bad. She was about to marry a man who loved her, and who she loved in return. To be sure, life hadn't turned out quite the way she had once thought it would, but she was content. She wasn't looking forward to boarding the ship, but she supposed that she had to do it sometime.

Rose looked at Robert. He was drinking another cup of coffee, watching her.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing," he told her, and before she noticed what he was doing, he took a cookie and popped it in her mouth. Rose choked in surprise, then giggled.

Deborah came back into the room.

"Lovebirds," she scolded, seeing Robert trying to put another cookie in Rose's mouth. "Behave yourselves."

"Like you?" Rose couldn't help teasing her, looking at her swelling middle.

"I'm married," Deborah replied loftily. "You have to wait two more days."

The doorbell rang, and the housekeeper escorted Mrs. Hill into the parlor a moment later. After being introduced to the groom, she began fussing over Rose.

"You're much too thin. Haven't you been eating properly? And your skin! You know you shouldn't spend so much time in the sun, especially not in the South. It's much too bright there for you to go out without a hat."

Rose touched her face. She was a little tanned, although her makeup had helped to protect her from the worst of the sun's rays.

"Well, never mind. You're just a little sun-kissed. You'll still look gorgeous in white satin and lace. I couldn't get any beads, though—too short a notice. We'll have to use what I had on hand."

"Mother," Deborah interjected, "shouldn't you let Rose make her own decisions about what kind of dress she wants?"

"I brought several patterns for the dress and veil, and three patterns of lace. There's also tulle for the veil, and some white ribbon."

"It should be fine," Rose assured her. "I do need a dress."

"Well, I'm going to help anyway," Deborah told them. "To keep Mother from brow-beating you." She turned to Belinda. "Where did you put the materials?"

"I had them placed in your sitting room."

"All right. Let's get started." She looked at Robert. "Will should be home in about an hour. He's invited the two of you to stay for dinner, which will be around eight. In the meantime, if you'd like something a bit more substantial to tide you over, just go to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Bloomfield. She'll find you something. You're welcome to sit in the library if you like. We've plenty of books, if you want to read."

"All right." Robert waved them off. "Go get your fitting done."

The three women hurried away, discussing styles and fabrics.

Rose finally chose an elegant gown with a full skirt, no train, and lace insets in the bodice. It was considerably less elaborate than the gown she had worn for her wedding to Cal, but it suited her better. She chose a veil of simple tulle, with a few ribbons to decorate. Deborah offered her a pair of white shoes to wear, and Rose accepted, since they were nearly the same size.

She stood patiently while Mrs. Hill measured her, criticized her admittedly shabby undergarments, and cut the patterns and fabric. As she made her final measurements and packed up her supplies, Rose escaped with Deborah into the nursery that was being decorated for the coming infant. Deborah wheeled herself around, pointing out each detail. There was already a bassinet with blankets, a changing table set low so that Deborah could care for her child, and several soft stuffed toys.

Rose admired each item, thinking all the while of the baby she had lost. She had never told anyone about it. Her baby would have been almost a year and a half old, if it had lived. She followed Deborah back downstairs, wondering how Robert would feel about having a child. Not right away, of course—she didn't want to have a baby in the wilderness—but after they returned to civilization, perhaps they could start a family.


	42. The Adventurer 4

Chapter Forty-Two

May 17, 1914

Robert Calvert and Rose Dawson were married on a sunny afternoon in May. It was a small wedding, held in a nearby park, with only the Hills and Hutchisons in attendance. The minister, who ordinarily would have been too busy to perform a wedding at such short notice, had given in to Deborah's pleas and married the couple.

Deborah had insisted upon taking Rose shopping in San Francisco the day before, as soon as they escaped from Belinda's fittings. They had wandered amongst the department stores and boutiques, Rose pushing Deborah's wheelchair on the steeper streets. They had taken a car into the city, but it was much too congested to simply drive from place to place, and the two women made their way through each block before returning to the car.

Deborah had escorted Rose into a small, fashionable ladies' clothing store, and insisted upon buying her a small trousseau. Rose had protested, but Deborah had refused to listen, insisting that it was her wedding present. Rose had to admit that the delicate, pretty lingerie and night things were much nicer than her own shabby, well-worn undergarments, but she wasn't sure what she would do with the things once she reached Alaska. They didn't seem too practical for the wilderness.

Rose returned the favor by introducing Deborah to the comfortable undergarments she had first adopted almost two years earlier, brassieres. Deborah had long ago rejected corsets, finding the tight undergarments with their metal or bone stays intolerable for one who had to sit all day, but she had never tried these undergarments. Rose showed her how they were used, and Deborah admitted that they were a great improvement over the more popular corsets.

When they returned to the Hutchison's home, they found that Mrs. Hill—always a wonder with a needle—had nearly finished Rose's gown, although she admitted to enlisting one of the maids to help her. Rose had tried the gown on, while Belinda had pinned up the hems. It had looked wonderful, and Rose was glad that she had permitted the gown to be made. She had thought of buying an inexpensive dress somewhere, but had to admit that this was much nicer. It also made her best friend's mother happy, to be able to perform such a service. Belinda had always treated Rose as though she was her own daughter.

When Rose had arrived at Deborah's home the following day at noon to dress, the gown and veil had been ready. Deborah had looked her over critically, then selected some jewelry from her own collection for Rose to wear—a simple pearl necklace and matching earrings that set off the gown to perfection. It looked much better than the Heart of the Ocean that Rose had worn at her wedding to Cal, far more understated and less gaudy. Secretly, Rose thought that the Heart of the Ocean only looked good when nothing else was worn with it.

The wedding was held in a local park at two o'clock. There were no fancy invitations, decorations, or crowds of guests. There was only the happy couple and the bride's dearest friends, as well as the minister and the Hill's butler, who played the wedding march on the violin.

It was a beautiful day, the wedding area decorated by nature's beauty. Flowers bloomed in profusion, and the trees, fully leafed out but not yet the deep shade of green they would be in the summer, stood majestically around the corner of the park that had been roped off for the wedding. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue, and the sounds of children playing could be heard in the distance. Birds chirped in the trees overhead.

It was so different from Rose's first wedding that there seemed to be little comparison. Gone were the crowds of back-biting, social-climbing guests; the organ music that echoed through the enormous church; and the groom smirking at her, his eyes telling her what was to come, while all the time he looked like a perfect gentleman to the watching guests. In place of those things were a few friends, soft violin music, and a groom who watched her with love in his eyes.

Rose stood at the edge of the trees, watching, as Will pushed Deborah's wheelchair up to where the minister and Robert waited. Deborah looked stunning in a peach silk gown, scattering flower petals over the ground as they made their way to the front. The Hills stood to the side, watching with smiles on their faces.

Rose took a deep breath as the butler began to play the wedding march. Holding her bouquet of daffodils, narcissus, and white lilies, she slowly made her way over the grass to where Robert was standing, waiting for her. Handing her bouquet to Deborah, she turned to face him, smiling.

As they repeated their vows, and the minister said the words that made them husband and wife, Rose thought briefly of the events that had brought them there that day, and then put the thoughts from her mind, ready to face the future, and whatever it held.

Afterwards, the couple and their friends returned to the Hill's home for a wedding dinner, inviting the minister, and, at the Calverts insistence, the servants, to join them. It was a pleasant reception, with music playing on Mr. Hill's phonograph, and a buffet set up in place of a formal meal. Deborah applauded when the newlyweds cut the wedding cake, and insisted that they join herself and Will in the car to return to their hotel at ten o'clock. Robert and Rose paid little attention to their hosts, so wrapped up were they in each other, and, when they arrived at their hotel, had to be told three times that they were there before they looked up.

They bade their hosts good night, and Deborah slyly whispered advice to Rose on which nightgown to wear for her wedding night, assured that her own experience as a married woman far outdid anything that Rose could know. Rose didn't bother to correct her, but did take her friend's advice on which item from her trousseau to wear.

Their wedding night was special, far more than Rose had thought possible, and she was glad that they had waited. And when the couple fell asleep in each other's arms late that night, Rose's last fleeting thought before sleep claimed her was of how happy she was.


	43. The Adventurer 5

Chapter Forty-Three

May 18, 1914

The Calverts set sail for Alaska the next morning at eleven o'clock. Rose approached the ship nervously, trying to hide her fear from Robert. She hadn't set foot on a ship, or even been near the ocean, since the Carpathia had docked in New York in April of 1912. Despite all of the opportunities she had had to visit the beach, especially when she was living in New York and San Francisco, Rose had studiously avoided the sea. She had glimpsed it a few times in San Francisco, but had never visited the beach itself.

Now, as they rode toward the pier in a cab, Rose looked out a window, straining for a glimpse of the ship, or of the sea. She had never been near the Pacific Ocean before. The cab moved slowly amongst the crowds of people at the docks, the driver swearing at those who blocked his path. Rose tuned him out, more concerned with other things.

She could smell the ocean as they got closer. It didn't smell much different from the Atlantic—salt water, fish, sea air. Tensing, Rose remembered the last time she had been near an ocean—the crowds of people waiting for word on friends and relatives, as well as shouting reporters and curiosity seekers; the pouring rain; Cal, still angry, pulling her along to a carriage.

Rose looked up as the carriage came to a stop and the passengers got out. The sky was overcast this morning, in stark contrast to the sunlight of the day before, and the water was choppy. She looked at it nervously, wondering if it was a bad omen, as the cabby handed them their bags and accepted his money.

"Well, this is the ship," Robert told her, gesturing to the vessel before them. "Not as fancy as the Mauritania, but it'll get us where we're going."

Rose looked at the ship, half-expecting to see an enormous, shining new ocean liner, surrounded by crowds of steerage passengers and members of high society. Instead, she saw a much smaller ship, still in good condition but obviously well-used. This ship had made the journey to Alaska many times.

There were a few wealthy-looking people near the ship, mostly travelers visiting Alaska for fun, but most appeared to be workers, or adventurers like themselves. Alaska was mostly wild and unsettled, and attracted people looking for adventure, or escaping from the law, or seeking their fortunes.

Robert handed her a ticket, and they got in line for the health inspection. They would be traveling in steerage. Even on a well-used ship, first or second class was too expensive for them.

After passing through the health inspection, which Rose likened to being inspected for sale, they boarded the ship. Steerage on this ship was much like that on any other—dark, crowded, and none too clean. Looking around, Rose couldn't help but compare it with steerage on the Titanic, which had seemed much better, at least initially. Of course, after the Titanic had struck an iceberg, steerage had become a deathtrap, but before then it had been a fairly pleasant traveling area.

They moved through the dark, narrow halls, searching for their room. Rose saw several locked gates, and shuddered, remembering being locked behind a gate on the Titanic as the water rose, nearly drowning herself and Jack before he had managed to unlock the gate.

Robert noticed. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Rose shrugged. "Nothing. Just a bit chilly, is all."

"All right." Robert looked like he didn't quite believe her, but didn't comment. A rat darted down the hall, deftly avoiding them and several other passengers, and he jumped.

Rose laughed. "Are you afraid of rats?"

"No. It just startled me, is all."

"Uh-huh." They had reached their room, and slipped inside. Rose looked around at the narrow bunks and bare wooden floor, glad to see that at least they had a porthole in their room. They would be able to see out.

"Home sweet home," she mumbled, tossing her bags on the upper bunk. It would be just the two of them in the room, since there were only two narrow beds.

"For a week and a half, at least," Robert replied, setting his own belongings on the floor. "Hardly ideal for newlyweds, but I'm sure we'll survive."

"It'll take a bit of imagination, but I'm sure we can work it out," Rose commented, looking out the porthole. The ship was getting ready to leave.

"Why don't we go up on deck and watch the ship set sail?" Robert asked her, joining her at the porthole.

"Watch? Why?"

"Because it's fun! Don't tell me you've never watched a ship set sail before. You've been on the Mauritania."

"Yes, but I didn't get to watch it leave."

"Well, here's your chance. Come on."

Robert grabbed her hand and almost dragged her from the room. He shut the door firmly behind him and headed for the deck, Rose following.

He was right, Rose thought, as they arrived on deck. People lined the railing, shouting and waving to those still on the shore. Rose pushed her way up to the railing, looking to see if she recognized anyone.

At first, she didn't see anyone she knew. Then, she saw a figure sitting in a wheelchair a short distance from the crowd, searching the faces of the passengers.

They caught sight of each other, and Rose waved, shouting. She wasn't sure if Deborah could hear her over the din, but she called out anyway, grinning and waving, giving no sign of the trepidation she felt. Robert came up behind her, and she saw Will and the Hutchisons' chauffeur standing near Deborah. The two couples waved, shouting unintelligible greetings and good-byes to each other, as the ship began to move.

Rose looked out at the water as the ship started away from the shore. She remembered something that she had read, about the Titanic nearly colliding with another ship when it first set sail from Southampton, and watched anxiously, wondering if this ship would have similar problems. But there were no mishaps, and the ship slowly made its way away from land, leaving a trail of white foam in its wake.

Despite the inclement weather, Rose insisted upon spending most of the day on deck. They went inside long enough to eat lunch and put on warm coats, and then went back out on deck.

Few people were about. The chilly, windy weather kept most people inside the ship, but Rose refused to go inside. She spent most of the afternoon walking around the deck, as far as she could, occasionally settling down but mostly standing at the railing, looking out to sea.

She had grown increasingly nervous as San Francisco had faded from view, leaving nothing around the ship but ocean. All afternoon, she walked the deck, staring out at the choppy waves.

Robert had humored her at first, but had soon grown exasperated with Rose's desire to stay outside in the cold. He had finally left her to her own devices, but came back out to look for her when dinnertime approached and she still wasn't back.

Rose was leaning against the railing, staring intently at the horizon, when he found her. She jumped, startled, as he stopped beside her.

"You know," he teased her, "it's going to be several days before you can see Alaska."

"I know," Rose told him, still scanning the choppy sea.

"Then what are you looking for?" He peered out at the water, not seeing much of interest. The ship rocked slightly, moved by the waves.

"Icebergs," Rose told him, without thinking.

"Icebergs? What are you looking for icebergs for?"

"Nothing."

"There's no icebergs down here. This part of the Pacific is too warm. We're not that far from San Francisco."

"The Atlantic has icebergs."

"You mean like the one that sank the Titanic?"

Rose looked at him sharply. "Yes."

"I don't think we need to worry. It's spring now, and too warm for icebergs."

"It was spring when the Titanic sank, too. April 15, 1912."

"Yes, but this is May, and we're in the Pacific, which is much warmer than the North Atlantic."

"And we're headed for the Arctic, which is colder than either."

"Yes, but it's still spring, and this captain is said to have twenty years of experience. Besides, this ship has made the journey many times without a problem. This isn't a maiden voyage."

"When the Titanic sank, they said it was unsinkable. And that captain had twenty-six years of experience."

"And, according to the papers, no mishaps before that. Why are you so worried, anyway? You weren't on the Titanic, were you?"

"No," Rose answered quickly. "I've never been on a ship before in my life." Then she realized her mistake.

"What about the Mauritania?"

"I forgot about that one."

"No, you didn't." Once again, Robert proved himself to be uncomfortably perceptive. "You were on the Titanic, weren't you?"

"No!" Rose glowered at him. "I have never been anywhere near that ship."

"That's why you're looking for icebergs in the Pacific Ocean."

Rose turned on him. "Fine!" she spat. "I was on the Titanic! Are you satisfied now? You've finally solved the mystery of Rose. She's such a strange person because she survived that disaster! And before you ask why I haven't talked about it before, think about how you would feel if you had been through such a tragedy, and lost people that you cared about!" She turned and stormed away, heading inside, before realizing how stupid that had sounded. Robert had lived through a disaster, and lost people that he cared about, when the earthquake had occurred in San Francisco in 1906. She turned to apologize, but he was nowhere to be found.

Dinner was strained. Rose and Robert exchanged polite small talk, unable to talk seriously in the crowded, noisy room. All around them, people scraped utensils against dishes, shouting, talking, and laughing. There weren't many women on board, and Rose received several speculative looks before Robert took her arm possessively, showing possible competitors that she was taken.

They finally returned to their room. Several people had brought instruments, and there was music and dancing going on, just as there had been aboard the Titanic, but Rose had little interest in participating. Her fear of sailing again, combined with the strain of the argument between Robert and herself, had left her tired, and she had no desire to join the party.

They walked to their room in silence, Rose trying to think of what she should say to fix the mess she had made. When they got there, she turned to him.

"Robert, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have blown up like that. It's just...I've been worried about sailing on a ship again—I haven't set foot on one since the Titanic sank—and I guess I was looking for something to fight about."

He sighed and looked at her. "You know, Rose, I do know what it's like to lose people you care about in a disaster. I think I would have understood if you had told me about Titanic."

Rose crossed her arms over her chest. "I know. I...I just have trouble talking about it. It was a terrible tragedy, and I lost one of my few friends—my maid, Trudy—when that ship went down."

"Was any of your family lost?"

Rose shook her head. "No. The only family member who was on the ship with me was my mother. She was one of the first ones evacuated from the ship. My ex-fiancé was also there, and he survived."

"Much to your disappointment."

"I would never wish that kind of end upon anyone, not even him."

Robert nodded. "Did you lose anyone else?"

Rose hesitated, debating whether to tell him about Jack. After a moment, she decided against it. She still couldn't talk about him.

"I knew some of the passengers who died, other members of society. It was so cold that night, and when the Carpathia arrived to rescue the survivors in the morning, there was ice all around. A lot of people froze to death." She shivered, remembering the bitterly cold water, remembering the ice that had formed in her wet hair, freezing it to the board that had saved her life. Most of all, she remembered the ice that had frozen her hand to Jack's, the ice that she had had to break away so that she could keep her promise and survive.

"And that's why you were on the lookout for icebergs."

Rose nodded. "If they had seen that iceberg sooner, the whole tragedy might have been prevented."

"I don't think you could prevent it from happening again, Rose. Even if you do somehow spot an iceberg, the lookouts with their binoculars will no doubt see it first."

She looked at him. "On Titanic, the lookouts didn't have binoculars. They got lost somewhere after Southampton."

"Well, they have them now. I saw one of the lookouts with them while I was looking for you earlier. Another thing you should know is that the laws have been changed. There are enough lifeboats now for everyone. It's required that there be space for everyone on board."

"I know. It was in the paper." She sighed. "Maybe I'm just being overly nervous. Most ships' journeys end successfully."

"That's right, they do. And this ship was built with Arctic journeys in mind. It's been built to resist ice, just like that ship that went down to Antarctica a few years ago, the Discovery. It's been to Alaska, and to Siberia, many times without a problem. This was the ship I traveled on the first time I went to Alaska."

"Was it really?" Rose looked at him, slightly less nervous now.

"It was. And it had no problems. In fact, we didn't see a single iceberg the whole trip."

"Well...I guess I can try to relax," Rose told him. "There's probably nothing I can do anyway. I'll admit that being on a ship still makes me nervous, but I'll try to settle down. I can't make any promises, though."

"I couldn't ask for more. Now, speaking of relaxing, do you want to go to that party out there, or would you rather stay here?"

"I think I'd rather stay here." Rose flopped down dramatically on the bottom bunk, wiggling against the wall. "I don't know that I want to sleep right now, though."

Robert laughed and lay down beside her. It was a tight squeeze, but they managed. "I think we'll fit...maybe."

Rose giggled and put her head on his shoulder. "I did say that we might have to use our imagination."


	44. The Adventurer 6

Chapter Forty-Four

June 1, 1914

Rose pulled the blanket over her head. Someone was singing loudly in her ear, some annoyingly happy song about a ship reaching port.

She finally peeked out. Robert was standing next to her bunk, singing and grinning cheerfully.

Rose shut her eyes again, but Robert had already seen that she was awake. He pulled the blanket off, still singing.

Rose sat up, almost banging her head on the low ceiling of their room. "Has anyone ever told you that you could have a successful career as an alarm clock?" she grumbled, sliding clumsily from the bunk and stretching.

They had decided to sleep in separate bunks after discovering that sleeping jammed so close together was uncomfortable, especially after Robert had managed to shove Rose out onto the floor. Rose had told him that it was better to not sleep so crowded together anyway, because he snored. Robert had denied it, but Rose had just laughed and refused to take back her words.

Now, Rose reached for her robe, eyeing Robert balefully. "Why did you get me up so early?" she complained. She could see by the porthole that it was early morning—and this far north, in June, morning came very early.

"I was walking around deck—"

"At this hour?"

"It's four o'clock."

"Like I said..."

"I couldn't sleep, so I was walking around deck, and we're within sight of land. We should be disembarking today."

"Land?" Now Rose was wide-awake. She pulled her robe tighter. "I want to see!" She hurried to the porthole, but saw only ocean.

"It's still a ways away. We'll have to go outside to see it."

Rose headed for the door, Robert in tow. She had grown somewhat more comfortable with sailing, but was still relieved that the voyage was almost over. It had been an uneventful trip, with only one iceberg sighted, and that one far away, but the ship had still been stopped for the night, making the trip take slightly longer. Still, it was better to prolong the trip than to ram the ship into an iceberg.

The Calverts headed for the deck, passing a few people who were out and about at this early hour. When they reached the deck, Rose shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, then hurried to the railing.

Land was indeed visible in the distance. A dark line of green forest greeted her wide eyes as she strained to see. In a few hours, they would be there.

Much as she disliked sailing, Rose had to admit that the trip hadn't been all bad. She and Robert had joined in the merriment in steerage on several nights before retreating to the privacy of their cabin, and had spent several days sitting on deck, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. After the second day, however, Rose had taken to wearing a hat when she sat on deck, having learned that while sunshine was pleasant, sunburn was not.

They had walked around and around the deck, talking, getting to know each other even better. Despite the fact that they had known each other for two years now, they hadn't run out of things to share, and new things came to their attention every day.

The third day out, Rose had seen something that had delighted her—the sight of whales swimming in the deep ocean waters. She had never seen a live whale before, only pictures, and she had marveled that the huge, fishlike mammals were the source of the uncomfortable boning in corsets. She had wondered how they were hunted, and Robert had tried to explain to her about harpoons, and whale ships, until she had made a disgusted face and stopped him from telling her more.

They stood out on the deck for about fifteen minutes, looking toward the land, before the chill early morning breeze drove them back inside.

Rose practically danced back to their room. They were about to land! They would have solid ground under them at last!

She dressed quickly, and packed the rest of their belongings, while Robert watched, amused, pointing out that they probably wouldn't dock until afternoon.

Rose didn't care. After two weeks on board the ship, they would be back on solid land, and she couldn't be happier.

The ship docked at four o'clock that afternoon. Rose almost ran down the ramp, so eager was she to set foot on land again.

Robert laughed, steadying her, as the ground seemed to tip oddly. She had forgotten how it felt when she first got off a ship, and had to regain her land legs.

They walked around the town of Juneau for about an hour after that. It was a small town, but larger than many in Alaska, since it had been used as a jumping off point for prospectors for years.

They wandered lazily around the town, taking their time. Now that they had reached their destination, there was no need to hurry, and they acted like any two tourists on a vacation, poking into stores and hotels, and trying to decide where to go next.

Robert looked a little worried as they wandered through several stores and saw the high prices. It had been some years since he had been to Alaska, and he had forgotten how high the prices at the edge of this wilderness were.

Rose noticed. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"I...ah...I'd forgotten how high prices are up here."

"Are we going to be able to afford this?"

"Yes, but we'll have to camp out tonight, rather than stay in a hotel, and we may have to live off the fat of the land."

"Live off the fat of the land?"

"Yes. Hunt, fish, that sort of thing."

"Have you ever done this before?"

He shrugged. "Partly."

Rose looked at him skeptically. "Speaking strictly from me, I would rather not starve out there. We came here for an adventure, not suicide."

"We won't starve. I know how to hunt and fish."

Rose was still doubtful. "I think I'd be more comfortable if we had food supplies with us. Just in case the land isn't so fat."

"We will. Just...not as much as I originally hoped."

"You're that short on money?"

"Prices are higher here than in the states."

"I noticed." They were at the edge of town, and Rose made her way over to a fallen log and sat down. "What were you saying about camping out?"

"If we camp out, then we won't have to pay for a room. We can use that money to buy supplies."

"And then we'll have enough?"

"Almost."

"I've never camped out before."

"You are a city girl," he teased her. "Seriously, it's a good idea. We'll be camping while we're in the wilderness—no hotels out there—and you can get a taste of it close to civilization."

"If you say so." Rose shrugged. She was willing to try camping, even though she'd never done it before. After all, wasn't this what adventure was about—trying new things? "About the supplies..." she went on.

"I'll take care of you. Have I ever let you down before?"

"No, but as you said, I am a city girl. I would feel better having some civilized food supplies as a backup. I have no idea how to cook fish or game, or how to look for berries or anything."

"I'll show you. I've done these things before. My cousins and I even hunted and looked for berries and such in the countryside around Cedar Rapids."

"But we're in Alaska now."

"I did the same thing here."

"Even so..."

He sighed. "Well, if you have the money to contribute, do so. Otherwise, I don't know how we'll get more than a week or so worth of food."

"How long are we expecting to be out there?"

"I was thinking all summer, maybe longer."

"How long would that be?"

"A couple of months, at least."

Rose opened her bag. Despite Robert's talk of his ability to hunt, fish, and live off the land, she still didn't quite want to entrust her life to such. She dug around in the bag, searching.

She had about two dollars left from her time in New Orleans. It would help, but it wasn't nearly enough. She dug farther, wondering if she had any coins that she might have dropped inside. Even a little bit would help.

She felt something inside a tear in the lining, and reached for it, remembering that she had wrapped the Heart of the Ocean in a handkerchief and tucked it in there the first time she had left San Francisco. She doubted that she could find a buyer for it here, though, and she didn't really want to part with it anyway.

Just as she was about to tuck it back inside the lining of the bag, she felt the other objects that she had also wrapped in the handkerchief. She had forgotten about them until now.

Carefully unwrapping the contents, shielding them from Robert's eyes, she removed her diamond earrings and engagement ring that she had worn to her wedding to Cal. Briefly, she looked at the Heart of the Ocean before tucking the handkerchief back around it.

She was reluctant to share it with Robert, although she wasn't quite sure why. She knew that he wouldn't try to take it from her, or force her to sell it, but it was something that she wanted to keep to herself, a part of the past that she was reluctant to share.

Her hand still hidden in the bag, she looked at the ring and earrings. Although she probably couldn't get as much for them as she would in the states, they would still pay for the supplies they needed, and have money left over for emergencies.

She looked at them, considering. She didn't really want to sell the earrings, since they had been a Christmas gift from both of her parents the year before her father had died, but she would be more than happy to part with the ring. It was a vulgar, gaudy thing, and she had never really wanted it in the first place. She had been carrying it with her from place to place, but she had no use for it.

Rose almost laughed at the irony. If she had remembered that she had these things in New Orleans, she wouldn't have become a street performer. But if she hadn't, she would never have met Tom DeWitt, or known the joy of trying to improve the civil rights of the people around her. Most likely, she wouldn't even have met Robert again, and they wouldn't be married, or about to set off for the wilderness. Life took some interesting twists sometimes.

She tucked the earrings away with the Heart of the Ocean, and took the ring from the bag, showing it to Robert.

"Where did you get that?" he asked, stunned.

"It was my old engagement ring, given to me by the man I left at the altar. If we sell this, we should have plenty of money to buy supplies."

He shook his head. "You can't sell that. It's much too valuable, and you wouldn't get nearly what it's worth."

Rose shrugged. "It would get us what we need, and I don't really want it anyway." At his astonished look, she elaborated. "I never wanted to marry him, and the ring seemed more like a symbol of possession than anything else—something he could use to show me off. I don't have a use for it, either. After all—" She looked at her left hand. "—I have two perfectly good rings already." She looked at the garnet engagement ring that she still wore, and at the simple gold wedding band. "I don't need this flashy thing. Wearing it would be like asking to be robbed."

"I can't let you sell your jewelry to support us. I'm supposed to be taking care of you."

"So the law says, but all things considered, I think that people more commonly take care of each other."

Robert shook his head. "I won't take your jewelry. I'll take care of us somehow."

Rose shrugged. "Well, then, I'll sell this thing and use the money to buy supplies for myself. You can survive on your own."

"Uh, Rose..."

Rose looked at him knowingly. "Just how much have you lived off the fat of the land?"

"I can do it."

"I'm sure, but still..."

He sighed. "All right. We'll sell your ring. I don't have to like it, though."

"Look at this way. By law, everything that was mine is now yours. So, technically, we will be selling your jewelry."

"I'd still rather not."

"I know, but I think I should contribute something. You'll be doing plenty of taking care of me in the next few weeks. I have never been to the wilderness, and you'll have to teach me what to do. I've never even been camping, and I know nothing about living off the fat of the land." She gave him a teasing look, putting on a helpless act. "I'm just as helpless as can be."

"Helpless! You're about as helpless as a porcupine."

"You didn't think I was a porcupine last night."

He laughed, his sour mood forgotten. "I take that back. You're as helpless as...as..."

"As nothing?"

He pretended to think it over. "I'm sure I could think of something."

Rose hit him playfully on the arm. "Watch it, buster!" She tucked the ring into her skirt pocket. "Let's go find a buyer for this thing."

After several tries, they managed to sell the ring. As Robert had predicted, they didn't get as much for it in Alaska as they would have in the states, but it was more than enough to buy what they needed.

Despite the fact that it was late afternoon, there were still many businesses open, and they were able to purchase what they needed. Rose had no idea where to start, so Robert gave her her first lesson in wilderness life—how to buy supplies.

They purchased a tent, bedrolls, rucksacks to carry things in, and clothing for both of them. The clothes they had worn in the city weren't sturdy enough for where they were going, and Rose's dresses were highly impractical. They were both soon outfitted with warm, sturdy trousers, shirts, vests, and coats. Rose protested at first—ladies didn't wear trousers—but changed her mind when she discovered how much easier they were to move in than long dresses. They each got a good pair of boots, as well.

After buying what they needed, they went looking for food supplies. Rose had assumed that they would buy canned goods, but Robert pointed out that they would probably be walking most of the time, and didn't need the additional weight of large quantities of canned foods. They bought a small amount of these foods, but mostly purchased dried foods—jerky, beans, fruit, flour, oatmeal, and sugar. Rose wrinkled her nose, not so sure that this was what they needed, but she deferred to Robert's greater experience. He had been to Alaska before, and she hadn't.

Robert also insisted upon buying firearms and ammunition for both of them. Rose had never used a gun, and didn't really want to, but she understood the practicality of having one. They were useful for hunting, although she planned to let Robert take care of that whenever possible, and for defending oneself. Most of the people they met wouldn't bother them, nor would most of the animals, but there would always be a few that they needed to watch out for.

The owner of the last store they went into shook his head, wondering at the intelligence of the two greenhorns who were heading into the wilderness. Many such people headed into the wilderness every year, and a number of them never came back. The wilderness was not kind to those who didn't know how to deal with it. He was particularly appalled at Robert's willingness to take Rose into the wilderness—a gently bred city girl had no place out there, in the storekeeper's opinion, and if Robert really wanted to go looking for adventure, he should leave his wife behind.

Neither of the Calverts were willing to listen to his reasoning, and he finally gave up, but did strongly suggest that they obtain a dog before they left, since a dog could guard them against predators, both animal and human.

Robert and Rose objected to this, too—they didn't know where to find a dog. The storekeeper mentioned a house near the edge of town, owned by a former prospector whose malamute had found herself a mate of unknown breeding, probably belonging to one of the many travelers who came through and left just as quickly. The malamute now had a litter of half-grown pups, and her owner was eager to be rid of them.

Robert and Rose thanked him, and set off for the prospector's home. There were indeed several half-grown pups, each beginning to near the size of their mother, and their owner was more than happy to part with one of them.

They looked the young dogs over, and finally selected one, a fluffy, long-legged male who whirled in circles after he had finished barking at them. All of the dogs had shown their protective instincts, but this one had quieted after ascertaining that they were no threat. The owner told them that this animal seemed to instinctively know the difference between friend and foe, and was already accustomed to obeying commands.

The dog sniffed them over, then plopped itself down on Rose's feet, already deciding that she was a friend. He was more suspicious of Robert, but finally decided to accept him, as well.

Rose, who hadn't had a pet in years, was delighted with the dog. He was of unknown breed, half-malamute, half-mutt, and she knew that her old crowd would have turned up their collective noses at the animal, but she promptly fell in love with the friendly creature.

They offered payment for the dog, but his owner wouldn't hear of it. The dogs were eating him out of house and home, and he was glad to be rid of one of them. He wished that more people would take the pups off his hands.

They chose a camping spot just outside of town. The dog, whom Rose had already dubbed Tripper for his ability to trip over his own feet, ran along beside them, poking his nose into holes and sniffing at logs, stopping occasionally to bark at unseen foes.

Robert showed Rose the basics of making camp—how to set up a tent, how to build an outdoor fire, and how to cook on it. Rose proved herself a fast learner, and they were both confident that they would be fine in the wilderness.


	45. The Adventurer 7

Chapter Forty-Five

The Calverts began their journey the following morning. It was slow going, especially at first, as they adapted to walking for hours each day with heavy loads. Everything they needed had to be carried on their backs, and even Tripper was given a load to carry, despite the animal's initial objections.

Still, as the days passed, they adapted to the constant travel, and their sore muscles toughened as they became more adept at wilderness living.

They traveled for as long, or as short, a time as they thought necessary each day. They didn't really have any particular place to go, so they went wherever impulse took them, mostly following the river north. Some days they walked long distances, while others they traveled little or not at all. Robert, who had done some prospecting years before, showed Rose how to pan for gold. It proved an interesting activity, if not a very profitable one. But they didn't really need the gold; it was all part of the adventure.

The first night out, after they had made camp, Robert showed Rose how to handle a firearm. Rose had never used a gun before, and wasn't terribly fond of the weapons—the sound of gunshots always reminded her of the night the Titanic sank, when Cal, infuriated by her jumping from the boat to be with Jack, had tried to shoot them. Still, she had to admit that it was a useful skill to have, especially in the wilderness, where guns were needed for procuring food and for defending oneself against predators, both animal and human.

Rose wasn't very skilled with the gun, but she managed, after some practice, to hit what she aimed for, as long as it was large enough to see easily and wasn't moving. Hitting small or moving targets was more a matter of luck for her. Still, it was enough that she could defend herself, since most threats were likely to be up close, and therefore within range.

Robert managed to hunt enough that they didn't have to use much of their dried food supplies, although Rose was nearly hopeless at hunting. She didn't like the idea of killing anything, and would shy away when an opportunity presented itself. Robert found this exasperating, but finally stopped trying to convince her to help with hunting. He did, however, teach her how to skin and prepare the animal once it was killed, and Rose, after getting over her initial squeamishness, was able to do this part of the preparation of wild game.

Rose contributed to the food supply, too. Before they had left, she had found a small book on the flora of the Arctic, and its uses. After some studying, and a few stupid but non-hazardous mistakes, she learned to forage for edible berries, roots, and greens along the river and in the forest. She learned more occasionally from other people that they met, and managed to provide well for herself and Robert even without hunting.

Another activity that they enjoyed after they had made camp for the night, or when they were staying in one place for a few days, was fishing. A variety of fish populated the rivers and streams, but Rose was most fond of salmon, a delicacy that she had enjoyed when she was a member of the upper class, but had rarely been able to afford after she had left home. They would sit on the river or stream bank, fishing, or would leave the weighted pole with the bait in the water while they did other things, and hope that a fish would bite before they came back, and not be eaten by some other creature.

Rose was able to tolerate fishing, despite the fact that it involved killing a living animal, because the fish didn't seem to have the same effect on her as warm-blooded animals. She didn't feel the same guilt over killing a fish and eating it as she did over killing land prey.

They gradually made their way north, sometimes camping with other people, sometimes camping alone. Tripper followed Rose everywhere, guarding her against any threats, and few people or animals would approach her with the dog standing guard. They met a few untrustworthy people, but most were either friendly or ignored them. Few predatory animals approached them, either, having learned that humans and their dogs were dangerous.

Despite the hardships that they encountered, the Calverts enjoyed their trip, and, as the summer progressed, made their way north onto the tundra.


	46. The Adventurer 8

Chapter Forty-Six

July 15, 1914

Rose knelt on the riverbank, swishing water and sand through her pan. They had been in Alaska for over six weeks now, and Rose had to admit that she liked the stark beauty of the wilderness. She wasn't quite sure where they were, but Robert called the broad, rolling plain the tundra. Most of the land was covered with a variety of grasses and herbs, browsed by herbivores both large and small. These animals' populations were in turn kept down by the predations of carnivores, particularly birds of prey, foxes, weasels, bears, and wolves.

Rose sat back on her heels, wondering when Robert would be back. He had gone hunting a couple of hours earlier, with Tripper to help search for game. The broad, rolling tundra offered a variety of prey, both large and small.

Setting her pan aside, Rose walked downstream to check the lines she had set up earlier in hopes of catching fish. Parts of the riverbank were clear, with only rocks and sand, but other parts were choked with low-growing brush and trees. Few trees grew very tall there, except for a few very hardy ones sheltered from the elements by cliffs carved out by the river. There was plenty of water, but the wind and cold kept the size of growing things in check.

She was in luck. Two of the three lines she had set up had fish caught on the hooks, still struggling to get free. They had carried two sets of fishing gear with them into the wilderness, but when they made camp for a few days they added to the number of fishing lines available, using sticks, fishing line, and spare hooks. Extra fish was smoked and dried over the fire, and added to their supplies.

Rose pulled the fish from the lines, brained them with a rock, and brought them back to camp. After quickly gutting and scaling them, she buried them in the coals of the fire to cook. Taking another pan from her pack, she wandered down to the river to see what she could find for dinner.

As she took off her boots and rolled up her trouser legs, intending to wade into the water to forage, she saw something glittering at the edge of the water. Curious, she picked it up.

It resembled a sparkly, metallic rock. Rose looked closer, remembering a picture she had seen of a gold nugget. Despite the weeks she and Robert had spent in Alaska, they had yet to find more than a little gold dust—just enough to keep them in supplies at the small frontier outposts they came across. Wondering if it was gold, she bit down on it, remembering that one way to tell gold from iron pyrite was that gold was soft and would show teeth marks if she bit it, while pyrite would either crumble or be too hard to bite down on.

The nugget showed her teeth marks. Excited, Rose tucked it into a pocket and looked around, wondering if there was more.

After a few minutes of searching, she confirmed that they had indeed come across a good spot. Several more nuggets were scattered in a small area, and, when sifting through the sand, Rose found a significant amount of gold dust. She waded upstream a little way, to where she had been working before. Picking up the pan, she traced her footsteps back down to where she had found the gold, and tied a piece of ribbon to a branch, marking the spot. They had found some gold dust upstream, but the spot that Rose had discovered had more. Located near a cliff, the bits of gold had been carved out by the elements over time and left in the water to be found. Rose looked across the river at the cliff, wondering if that was the source of the gold nuggets. They appeared to have been washed out and deposited in the river, kept in place by the slow-flowing water. The spot where she had found them was in a small, protected bend, where items that had washed up stayed until a major storm or the spring melt washed them away.

Rose tucked the nuggets into her pocket—she had picked up three—and turned her attention to foraging. The gold wasn't going anywhere, and she needed to find something for dinner.

Some time later, as Rose pulled on her shoes and carried the pan of roots, greens, and berries up to the camp, she pulled the three nuggets out of her pocket and looked at them. They glittered in the afternoon sunlight. Tucking them away again, she started preparing what she had found, looking forward to telling Robert about her discovery.

Robert returned to camp just as Rose was taking the fish out from under the coals. She piled them on their tin plates, then served up helpings of the stew she had made from the vegetables she had found, along with a little leftover meat and some salt. The berries she divided into two portions and set on the edges of the plates.

"Smells good," Robert told her, setting down the two Arctic hares he had caught. Tripper sniffed at them, and Rose shooed him away. The dog did well enough at hunting for himself that they seldom had to feed the animal more than a few table scraps. Insulted, the dog ran over to where Rose had dumped the entrails from the fish and devoured them. She smiled, watching him. If he didn't eat the entrails, she would have had to bury them, to avoid attracting predators.

Sated, Tripper lay down near Rose, eyeing her plate hopefully. Rose sometimes fed him a particularly tough morsel from her meal. Rose settled down near the fire, handing a plate to Robert.

As they dug into their dinner, Robert told Rose about that day's hunting trip. Rose listened quietly, almost bursting with her news, but wanting to tell him after he had finished his story.

"We went out to the tundra south of here, following the river," he told her, gesturing to the dog, who watched him sleepily. "Then we went west a ways, following a game trail. I guess that some animals made it coming to the river to drink."

"Did you remember to mark the trail?" Rose asked.

"Yeah, I remembered...this time." Robert grinned, a little sheepishly. About a week earlier, when they had first started out across the tundra, Robert had gone hunting and become lost. Had it not been for the compass he carried, and Rose's shouts as she looked for him, he wouldn't have found his way back to camp. There were fewer landmarks on the tundra than in the forest, and now they both made a point of marking their trail when they ventured very far from camp. A handful of hair ribbons and brightly colored pieces of cloth from one of Rose's old dresses served to lead them back to camp.

"At any rate, there is so much wildlife out here. Birds, rabbits, lemmings—"

"Please don't tell me you're trying to hunt lemmings." The small rodents didn't appear to be anything Rose wanted to eat.

"Of course not. But they are interesting to watch."

"True. They are kind of cute."

"I don't think they're so cute when they run off cliffs into sea."

"Do they really do that?"

"Yes, they do. I guess there gets to be too many of them, or something, and they run off looking for new territory. Unfortunately, they don't last long in the ocean."

"I wouldn't think so. It would be awfully cold, and no food or fresh water."

"A lot of them drown."

"Charming," Rose replied. "What else did you see?"

"Caribou."

She looked up. "Caribou?" They hadn't seen any of the herds of reindeer-like animals since coming to Alaska, although it stood to reason that the caribou would probably thrive on the grassy summer tundra.

"A whole herd of them. They didn't appear to be moving very fast, so they'll probably be around for a while. Maybe we can hunt a couple of them."

"_You_ can hunt a couple of them. I'll help you prepare them."

"Maybe, if I can catch any, we can tan the hides." Robert had entertained himself by tanning squirrel and rabbit hides when he was living with his relatives near Cedar Rapids, and had shown Rose how it was done. Rose found the process thoroughly disgusting, but had to admit that the tanned skins of the animals Robert had hunted made warm, soft linings for boots, coats, mittens, hats, and bedrolls.

"Those are pretty big animals, aren't they?"

"Fairly large, though not as big as some. If I can hunt any, I'll need help bringing them back."

"I'll help you. Just don't expect me to actually stalk them—or kill them."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Oh, Robert." Rose remembered the gold nuggets she had found in the river. "I found something that might interest you."

"What is it?"

Rose reached into her pocket, pulling out the chunks of gold ore. "These."

Robert took one, examining it closely. "Rose, this is gold! Where did you find it?"

"In the river, just a little way downstream from where we were working. I marked the spot. It's across the river from that cliff."

Robert handed the gold nugget back to her. "You'll have to show me, after dinner." He tossed the fish skeleton, with head and tail still attached, to Tripper, who gobbled it up and then looked at Robert, hoping for more.

The sun never set above the Arctic Circle at that time of year, so Rose had no trouble leading Robert back to where she had found the gold. He sifted through the sand, extracting two tiny chunks of ore, then looked more closely, seeing the shine of gold dust among the grains of sand.

"Do you know what this means, Rose?" he asked.

"We've found enough gold to buy all the supplies we need?"

"More than that. This spot is rich—not just in gold, but in everything. There's a river full of fish, plenty of game, all the berry bushes you could want, a beautiful, rolling plain...this is paradise."

"A cold paradise," Rose replied, but she smiled when she said it. She, too, was growing to love the vast, open expanse of the tundral wilderness.

"Tomorrow, I'll go to that little town about a day's walk from here and file our claim. You can stay here while I'm gone, or you can come with me—it's up to you."

"I think I'll stay, and make sure no one else takes over while you're gone."

"That'll work. We should still be able to stay here for another two or three weeks before we have to start back south."

"So soon?"

"Summer is short here, and winter is unpredictable. I wouldn't want to be caught in a storm without shelter, which could happen if we cut it too close. Of course…" He paused, thinking. "…we could get enough supplies to last us, and winter here."

"Here? In a tent?"

"We could build a sod house."

"What's that?"

"You cut bricks of sod out of the ground, and use them to build a roof and walls. We could build it right over where the sod was cut, giving us additional protection from the elements."

"Have you ever built such a house?"

"No, but I'm sure I can figure it out. Houses like that used to be common in the Midwest in the frontier days, and the winters there can be just as brutal as here."

Rose eyed him skeptically. "Well...all right. If we can figure out how to build one of these houses, we'll stay." She shrugged, smiling. "It is an adventure, after all."


	47. The Adventurer 9

Chapter Forty-Seven

Rose pulled the last of the smoking fish off the rack and set them aside on the grass to cool before placing them in the deep pit they had dug to keep their food safe. Turning, she looked around at their campsite.

It had been transformed since they had staked their claim. Robert had made the journey to the nearest town, while Rose had stayed in camp, Tripper at her side. After he returned, claim documents in hand, they had set about preparing for the winter.

Each had taken turns traveling into town to purchase enough supplies to last, hauling things back not only on their backs but also on a travois made from the tent poles and an extra piece of canvas purchased in town. The travois was attached to the rucksack and dragged along the ground. It was hard, heavy work, but it got the job done.

Robert had also had success at his hunting, and Rose had helped him to prepare three caribou and a bear, meat, hides, and all, as well as migrating waterfowl and fish. Rose had continued to scour the area for roots, greens, and berries, and even now, as autumn progressed, she continued to travel the riverbank and tundra, searching for more roots before the ground froze, as well as seeds and late berries. They were well-supplied for winter.

They had built their sod house about three hundred yards from the river, far enough away, they hoped, that it wouldn't be flooded out in spring. They had cut blocks of sod from the ground, going down to the permafrost, and built four walls from them, one with a hole left for a door, around the area they had cut them from. More blocks of sod, caulked with dried grass and clay, sloped over the walls, forming a roof. Neither was particularly skilled at construction, so it had taken numerous tries before they could be fairly certain that the house would not fall in on them. The small, sloping house resembled nothing so much as a grass-covered cave, and was difficult to see at a distance, so well did it blend into the landscape. A hole had been dug in the roof near the back of the house, to let out smoke from the fire, and was nearly the only indication that the house was there.

The door had been covered with the canvas from the tent, doubled up and stretched between the two tent poles after they had finished hauling supplies, and was secured with ropes when they wanted to keep it closed. The floor, originally the cold, hard permafrost, had been covered with a thick layer of sand from the river, and then softened with a covering of reeds and dried grass. Over this had been placed the canvas they had used to haul supplies, as well as one of the caribou skins. An area at the back had been set aside for the fire, with a wide area around it covered only in sand, without any of the grass or reeds that could so easily catch fire. The cooking gear was arranged around it, as well as a pile of fuel in the corner—whatever dead wood they could find, dry grass for tinder, and dried caribou dung, which made a surprisingly clean fire.

Rose had balked at the idea of using it at first, but wood was hard to come by on the tundra, and they could easily deplete what few trees grew along the riverbank. Reluctantly, she had agreed, finally overcoming her revulsion at the stuff, and even helped Robert to collect it and pile it in another large pit near the house, along with whatever dead plant materials they could find.

They had moved all of their belongings into the house as the days shortened and grew colder. Their bed was close enough to the fire for warmth, but far enough away that it was safe. With the caribou hides under them, and both bedrolls and the bear skin over them, they didn't really need much of a fire to keep warm while sleeping.

Along one wall were crudely made baskets and clay pots of dried food—meat, fish, berries, seeds—even one basket of dried greens and roots, which Rose wasn't sure what she could do with, but she thought she might find a use. Their purchased supplies were there, too—two fifty-pound sacks of flour, sugar, coffee, bacon, beans, dried fruit, salt—as well as a sack of apples, a small sack of onions and one of carrots, a sack of potatoes, and ten cans of fruit, which they were saving for special occasions, whenever they might come up. The smoked meat, poultry, and fish were placed in two deep pits on either side of the house, lined with reeds, filled, and covered again with reeds and sod, then covered further with rocks, to keep animals away.

Some of the blocks of sod that formed the house were uneven, forming small shelf-like spaces, and these too had been put to use, with small items such as matches, the bundles of willow sticks Rose had dried because she had read that they could be used like aspirin, a handful of candy sticks that Robert had surprised her with after one of his trips, and silverware placed on them. Their rucksacks had been converted to storage space for only their clothes and similar items that could not be stored elsewhere. They had far more than they had traveled in with, but they would not be taking most of it with them. The gold they had found was carefully hidden in various pits around the area, marked with bone stakes so that they would remember where it was, but no one else would find it and steal it from them. Only a very small quantity was kept in the house, in case they ever needed it.

Rose took the now-cooled fish from the grass, wrapped them in more grass, and set them in the pit, which was nearly full. One more empty pit was nearby, to be filled as soon as the weather stayed freezing. She replaced the sod and rocks, then stood up, stretching. The days were growing shorter, but they were still long enough to accomplish plenty.

She took the gold that she had panned earlier while the fish was smoking and dumped it into a small leather pouch, tucking it into her pocket. Gold, at least, was one thing they didn't have to worry about the local wildlife trying to make off with. No wolf or grizzly bear would have any interest in gold. Only a human would find the metal particularly useful.

Patting her other pocket to make sure the handgun she always carried was still in there, she picked up the pan she used for foraging and set off along the trail that they had broken across the tundral grasses. The tundra was brightly colored, reds and browns blending in with what little green remained, reminding her of the fall colors in Philadelphia, except that here it was grass and brush instead of trees.

Walking along, Rose scanned the area for anything she might wanted to gather. They still marked their trails at times, but they had become so familiar with the area that it wasn't necessary as long as they were within about two miles or so of their camp. Tripper ran along beside her, stopping to poke his nose into holes and chase small animals. Rose stopped, recognizing an edible plant, and dug up the root, while the dog watched her, trying to dig the spot further as she walked on.

Rose wandered in a wide area, searching for the last of the summer's bounty. There wasn't much left. She had exhausted many of the food plants in the area, and many more had been killed by frost, scattered by the wind, or eaten by animals. It took her about three hours to fill her pan, and by then it was late afternoon.

She looked up at the sky, pulling back the hood of her coat. It was around the middle of September, she estimated, and they had already had one light snowstorm that had soon melted, but winter was definitely on its way. The days were still slightly longer than the nights, but it wouldn't be long before the days would grow shorter and finally vanish altogether with the coming of winter.

Setting the pan down, Rose turned her face toward the sunlight, soaking it up. She wasn't looking forward to the long days of darkness, but it was one of the things that one had to tolerate this far north. Still, she wanted to get sunlight while she could.

Impulsively, she whirled around, and ran a short ways, coming to a stop atop a tundral hillock. Throwing back her head, she lifted her face up to the sun and danced in a circle, her arms outstretched.

Despite her initial misgivings about coming here, she had grown to love the wilderness. There was a peace to the vast, endless tundra that she had never found in civilization, and she knew that when they returned to the states in the spring or summer, she would miss this place. It had become her home.

Rose stretched her arms up toward the sky, smiling. She had found peace here, a healing from the troubles of the past, and she was glad she had come. The cold, rolling tundra, so forbidding to many, had become a place of life and hope for her.

Dropping her arms, she hurried back the way she had come, stopping to pick up her pan of roots and seeds before strolling back toward camp, her hood still thrown back, baring her face to the sun and wind.

She heard Robert calling her from camp, and hurried to join him. He had caught a rabbit for their dinner, as well as, to Rose's dismay, a fox that had been trying to break into one of the pits. They had no intention of eating the fox, although they knew that Tripper would probably take care of it in short order once it had been skinned, but this was the second animal that had tried to break in and not escaped. The bear had been the first.

Rose set her pan down, coming closer to view the fox and rabbit. Robert was already skinning the fox, preparing the skin for tanning, and Tripper dashed in, trying to help him. He shoved the dog away, laughing, then noticed the smile on Rose's face.

"What is it?" he asked, as she reached for the rabbit.

"What?" she asked, confused.

"Whatever you're so happy about."

"Nothing. Just...the sky is blue, the sun is shining, all is well with the world..."

He finished skinning the fox and tossed the remains to the dog, who grabbed the meat and ran around the side of the house to chew on it. "And you're happy."

"Yes." She pulled the knife from the holder at her waistband and commenced skinning and gutting the rabbit.

When she had finished, Rose took the skins and the rabbit inside, intending to start dinner. Impulsively, she set them down beside the fireplace and came back outside, grabbing a surprised Robert by the hands and whirling around, giggling.

"Rose! What are you doing?"

"Dancing," she replied, stopping and stumbling, dizzy. She flopped down on the ground, pulling Robert with her. He started to get up, but she tugged on his arm, keeping him beside her. "I think dinner can wait."

"You think so?" he asked, abruptly rolling onto his back and pulling her on top of him.

Rose laughed and bent her head down to kiss him. "Yes."

"Well, why don't we...ah...delay dinner inside? I don't know about you, but I think it's getting pretty cold out here."

"Even with me as a blanket?" Rose asked, pretending to be insulted.

"You make a delightful blanket," he told her, watching her blush, "but this ground does not make a delightful bed. I think it's starting to freeze."

"You mean the ground, or..." Rose laughed saucily, then got to her feet, darting toward the house.

"Hey! I'll get you for that!"

"Catch me!" Rose called, pushing her way through the canvas door. Robert followed her, laughing.

He caught up with her inside the house, grabbing her and sending them both tumbling onto the bearskin covering their bed. Rose wrapped her arms around him, still laughing.

"Are you sure dinner can wait?" she teased after a moment.

Robert went to secure the canvas. "Dinner? What's dinner?"


	48. The Adventurer 10

Chapter Forty-Eight

Winter soon came, and the days grew ever shorter, then finally vanished altogether. A thick blanket of snow covered the tundra in white, although it was not as much snow as Rose had originally expected. The tundra was a dry land. Still, as the winter wore on, a thick blanket of snow piled itself around the sod house, providing additional insulation from the bitter cold outside.

They were totally isolated from the rest of the world. The storms and the bitter cold kept other travelers away, and they were so far from the nearest town that they could not easily visit it. The endless night made the passage of time difficult to calculate, but they estimated the time of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the New Year, and celebrated them when they thought the time was right.

Oftentimes, storms blew across the vast, trackless tundra, and Robert and Rose spent the hours huddled inside their sod house, protected from the elements by the thick blocks of earth and the blanket of snow that covered the cave-like building. Tripper stayed inside with them, lying across the doorway and guarding them against any threats.

There was a sense of peace, of safety, in the isolation of the wilderness that Rose had never known in the cities, and, after a time, she realized that the past seldom haunted her thoughts anymore. Occasionally, some memory would stir, but for the most part, she lived for each moment, savoring being alive.

While the storms blew, the Calverts stayed inside, seldom venturing out unless absolutely necessary, and passed the long hours talking, sleeping, and making love. Rose taught herself to sew the skins and furs of the animals that Robert had hunted, and when he expressed boredom, taught him to do the same.

Despite the perpetual darkness of the Arctic winter, when the weather was clear the Calverts were often to be found outside, hunting the open tundra, ice fishing, and even breaking up the ice at the edges of the river and chipping at the frozen sand, searching for bits of gold. Rose still refused to hunt, but she often followed Robert on his forays, staying back while he and the dog moved in on their prey, and helping to butcher the game and transport it back if they were successful. Game was harder to find in the winter, but animals did still roam the tundra, and the occasional hunting trip took the edge off the boredom that came with spending long hours inside with little to do.

Ice fishing provided another interesting diversion. They had little need for the food—they had supplied themselves well—but the occasional fresh fish was welcome, and Rose found that she enjoyed ice fishing, though she could never quite forget Jack's story about falling through thin ice as a boy living in Chippewa Falls. Neither Rose nor Robert was particularly familiar with ice fishing, but they eventually figured it out, after a number of mistakes. The first lesson that they learned was that it was easiest to return to the same place to fish each time, since that meant that there was less ice to be broken through. They also learned that the bait that they used—bits of leftover meat—froze solid unless kept submerged in water. The hooks had to be baited while the meat was in the bucket of water, or it would freeze and be impossible to place on the hook, either bending the hook out of shape or splitting and shattering from the cold. Rose hated removing her mittens and dipping her fingers into the cold bucket of water—kept liquid by being set in a pan with hot coals in it—but it was the only way to bait a hook. Even then, the bait sometimes split and froze on the hook, and had to be resubmerged, or thrown away.

Nevertheless, they spent countless hours out on the ice, under the stars and moon, fishing, walking, and taking the opportunity to cross the frozen river and explore the land on the other side. The hours of the long, cold Alaskan winter passed peacefully.

Rose had found a new joy in life, a feeling of peace that she hadn't felt in a long time. She could almost forget the problems of life, and of the world. Life was good.

And so, when disaster struck yet again, it was even harder to endure.


	49. The Adventurer 11

Chapter Forty-Nine

The first thaw came in February, as the days were once again beginning to appear. Although it soon froze again, it was not quite such a deep freeze as before, and the ice on the river was thinner. Robert and Rose, however, were unaware of this, and continued to walk out on the ice to fish.

The hole they had chopped in the ice for fishing had completely frozen over when the cold returned, and they were uncertain of exactly where it had been. Unable to find it, they decided to chop a new hole.

Robert had just finished chopping the new hole in the ice when he stepped back—and found the location of the old hole. With a loud crack, the ice broke under him, and he fell into the bitterly cold water below. He barely had time to shout for help before the icy water closed over his head.

Rose had been bringing the bait bucket over from the house, and she heard Robert's cry for help. Dropping the bucket, she ran onto the ice, uncaring of her own safety.

Robert managed to get one hand out of the hole in the ice, but the water had already stiffened his limbs, and his heavy, sodden clothing was pulling him down. Rose threw herself stomach down on the ice, and reached for his hand. The ice creaked under her, and she tried to spread her weight out more evenly on the ice, knowing that there was less of a chance of her falling through that way, and a greater chance of getting out of the water if she did fall through.

Robert's hand slipped back beneath the surface as she reached the hole in the ice. Yanking off her mittens, she plunged her arms into the hole, gasping in pain at the feel of the water. It was even colder than the water had been the night the Titanic sank.

Splashing desperately in the icy water, Rose found one of Robert's hands, and pulled him toward the surface. His head came out of the water, and he coughed and choked, spitting out water. He tried to pull himself from the hole in the ice, to no avail.

With a strength she hadn't realized she possessed, Rose pulled Robert halfway out of the hole. There was a cracking sound from the ice, and Rose scooted backward, Robert forcing his frozen limbs to move as he followed her. As they moved onto more solid ice, the thin ice gave way, breaking into chunks that floated on the surface of the river.

Helping Robert to his feet, Rose got him back to the house. Once inside, he collapsed on the floor near the door. Rose secured the canvas, ordering Tripper to lie close against Robert. Using the body heat of dogs was a time-honored way of warming a frozen person.

Rose helped Robert up, and hustled him nearer to the coals of the fire. "Here, let's get you out of these clothes before you freeze," she told him.

Clumsily, his hands stiff from the cold, Robert began to remove his soaked clothes. Rose added fuel to fire, building it up, then turned to help him. Pulling the bear skin off their bed, she wrapped it around him and helped him to sit down beside the fire.

Rose took the sodden clothing into another corner of the room, to dry it out as much as possible, and then returned to Robert. He was still shivering violently, shaking so hard that he was almost unable to speak.

Tripper lay down at his side, whining. Rose moved to heat up the leftover stew from breakfast, and helped him to eat some of the hot food. Then, helping him to their bed, she stripped off her own clothes and lay down beside, allowing her own body heat to warm him.

Initially, Robert seemed to recover from his bout with hypothermia, but after two days they both realized that things were much more serious than they had originally thought.

They did not go back out on the ice, but they still ranged the countryside around their house, enjoying the gradually lengthening days. Rose felt strongly that Robert should stay inside until he was completely recovered from falling through the ice, but he didn't listen.

On the afternoon of the second day, they were traveling around the tundra near to their home when Robert began to complain that he had a cold. Shortly thereafter, he began to cough a great deal, and he and Rose quickly returned to the sod hut.

Robert spent a long time sitting in front of the fire, trying to stay warm, but finally retreated to bed. When Rose touched his face, she realized that he was burning with fever.

Nothing seemed to help. Rose gave him medicine prepared from the willow sticks she had harvested the summer before, and fed him rich stews made from their stored food supplies. She hardly went out, instead staying beside him, but nothing helped. She even brought in snow from the outside, to try to lower the fever, but it only made the cough worse.

Rose knew that things were bad, but she refused to acknowledge just how bad. She had lost so much already. Surely she wouldn't lose Robert, too.

But at the end of three days, Rose knew that they had lost the battle. Robert's temperature continued to soar, and his cough grew ever worse. His breathing was so labored that Rose often sat beside him, willing him to keep breathing. Death lodged in that dwelling, waiting.

On the night of the third day, Robert called to Rose. His voice was weak, almost non-existent, but in the close confines of the sod house, a person didn't need much voice.

"Rose."

Rose was at his side in an instant. "What is it? How do you feel?"

"I'm...still alive."

"Yes, and you're going to stay that way."

He tried to smile at her, but his eyes were bleak. He was dying, and they both knew it.

"Rose...I love you. I think I've...loved you...ever since you walked into the kitchen...at the boarding house. I..."

"Don't try to talk, Robert. You'll feel better in the morning."

"No. No...time. You're...strong, but this land...is stronger. In spring...go back to civilization. Let my cousins know...what happened."

"Robert, you're going to be all right. You _will_ get better."

"Sorry, Rose. I shouldn't have...brought you here. We should have stayed...in New Orleans."

"No. There's nothing to be sorry about. The months we've spent here have been some of the happiest of my life. I don't regret a minute of it." Rose's eyes overflowed. "I love you, Robert Calvert. I've known nothing but happiness since I became your wife. I won't forget you."

"Good...or I might have to...haunt you...for a while."

Rose tried to laugh, but sobbed instead. "Why did this have to happen?"

"It's life...I guess."

"It's so unfair."

"Fair is...where you ride...the Ferris wheel."

Rose lay down beside him, wrapping her arms around him. "I love you," she whispered.

"I know." Robert coughed, trying to draw a breath. Rose pulled him closer into her arms, knowing that there was nothing she could do now but be there for him. The pneumonia had gone too far for there to be any treatment. In a future world, with doctors and hospitals and antibiotics, he might have been cured. But on the desolate, isolated Alaskan tundra in 1915, there were no such ways of treating diseases. A person either recovered on their own, or they died.

Rose lay beside him, cradling him in her arms, as his breathing grew slower and slower, and finally stopped altogether. She didn't let go until it was over.


	50. The Adventurer 12

Chapter Fifty

Rose sat calmly beside Robert, still holding him in her arms. In contrast to her tears of a few moments earlier, she now felt strangely calm. Inside, she could feel the grief and anguish, tearing against the thin walls of calmness, struggling to break free, but she didn't give in to them just yet.

Slowly, Rose let go of Robert and covered his face with the bearskin, then got to her feet. Tripper whined pitifully, knowing that something was wrong, watching his mistress as she slowly, blankly walked around the tiny room.

Rose pulled her heavy fur coat from its peg on the wall. Still calm, she shrugged into it and laced it closed, then pulled on her mittens and pulled up her hood up around her head. None of the motions meant anything to her; it was just something to do.

Quietly, she untied the cords that held the canvas closed and stepped outside, hardly noticing the darkness or the bitter cold. After looking around for a moment, she turned and walked around the house, heading in the direction of the open tundra.

Tripper followed her a short way, but Rose turned and ordered him to stay and watch over Robert. Silently, she walked away from the house, over the tundra.

Rose had gone about half a mile before the reality of what had happened hit her. Robert was dead. She had been happy with him, had known peace for the first time in years, and now he was gone. An accident, a strange twist of fate, had taken the second man she had loved from her. She was only nineteen years old, and she was a widow.

Suddenly overwhelmed, Rose fell to her knees in the snow, sobbing in anguish. Robert was gone. He would never hold her again, never speak to her again. She was alone again.

The wind blew around her, grabbing her hood and pulling it away from her head, and suddenly Rose couldn't bear it. Struggling to her feet, she ran through the snow, racing over tundral hillocks and around clumps of frozen grass and brush. She didn't know where she was going, and she didn't care.

Rose's frantic flight ended when she tripped over a slight ridge on one of the hillocks and tumbled to the ground on the other side. She lay there, the wind knocked out of her.

Rose lay her head in the snow, her tears freezing to her face. The snow was thick and deep—there had been another storm the day before, and the tundra was frozen solid again—and she half-buried her head in it, not wanting to get up, not wanting to move.

Why did tragedy seem to follow wherever she went? Was she cursed in some way, perhaps from the day of her birth? Sorrow had followed her all of her life. Her father, Jack, Alice, Robert...so many good people gone, lost to the world—and to her. And yet, she went on. She kept struggling, kept living, even when hope was gone. Maybe she was being punished in some way—for disobeying the laws of society, for abandoning her mother, for leaving Cal at the altar, for killing Marietta...she didn't know.

It would be so easy, she thought, to just lay there, and let the cold take her. Alone on the tundra, far from any other human being, she could almost forget the promise she had made nearly three years past. What did it matter, anyway? She had no one. No one would care if she lived or died. No one would miss her. Most likely, all anyone would ever find of her was a few scattered bones, if that, after the wild animals got through with her. No one knew exactly where she and Robert had gone. Alaska was a huge territory, and they would just be two more luckless travelers who had vanished into the wilderness, never to be heard from again.

Rose closed her eyes, the occasional tear still trickling from under her lashes, feeling the cold seep into her body. It would be very easy to just lie there, slowly freezing, and finally fall asleep, never to awaken, just as Jack had three years earlier. It didn't matter. There were only so many promises a person could keep, and she had done the best she could.

Briefly, Rose opened her eyes, looking up at the sky above her. It was clear, the stars shining so brightly that they almost lit up the tundra. There was no moon. The stars, the cold...it brought her back to another night, long ago it seemed, when she had lain on a piece of wreckage somewhere in the bitterly cold North Atlantic, while the man she loved froze to death so that she could live.

_Promise me you'll survive..._

I can't, Jack, she thought. I've tried. God knows I've tried. I've lived a lot in these past three years, but it's over now. Everything I've done has ended in tragedy, and I can't face anymore.

_And never let go of that promise..._

Rose could almost hear Jack's voice on the wind, reminding her of her promise, condemning her for giving up. The wind suddenly seemed much colder, and Rose closed her eyes again, trying to shut out the past, the memories, the feeling of condemnation.

Rose felt the cold sinking deeper, penetrating her bones. It wouldn't be long now.

Suddenly, a low whine sounded near her ears. She lay still, trying to ignore it. The creature whined again, lying against her, and a warm tongue licked her frozen face, lapping at the frozen tears. Rose opened her eyes to see Tripper curled against her, warming her and preventing her from freezing.

Slowly, she sat up, almost angry at the dog for disobeying her and following her into the night. If he hadn't followed her, it would be over now. She would be free—free from pain, from sorrow, from the trials and tribulations of life. She would rejoin her loved ones.

The dog yelped, taking her hood in his teeth and pulling on it, as though intending to drag her back to the house. Rose pulled the hood away and fastened it back around her head, getting slowly to her feet.

Maybe it was a sign, she thought. Maybe it was a sign that Tripper, always so obedient, had disobeyed her and followed her onto the tundra, saving her life. Maybe it wasn't time for her to go yet. She didn't know why she kept on living when others died, why she had survived so much, but she was still alive. Perhaps there was a reason, even if she didn't know what it was.

In silence, Rose turned back toward the sod hut, following her trail back across the snow. Tripper trotted along beside her, never straying more than a few feet from her, as though herding her back to safety.

Rose slowed as she came into view of the snow-covered building, almost indistinguishable from the surrounding landscape. The river, frozen solid in the starlight, seemed to reflect back at her—a cold reflection of her sorrow, her grief, the pain of her loss.

Slowly, Rose turned away from the river, her footsteps crunching in the snow, as she headed for home.


	51. The Adventurer 13

Chapter Fifty-One

Rose placed Robert's body in a now-empty storage pit, curling him into a fetal position and covering the pit with rocks. It was impossible to dig a grave just yet; the ground was frozen solid. Even in summer, the permafrost would be just a few feet beneath the surface, but it was easier to chop out couple of feet of frozen ground than to dig an entire grave in the winter.

Everything around her reminded her of Robert. The frozen river reminded her of the hours spent ice-fishing, of the time spent panning for gold—and of the way that Robert had fallen through the ice, ultimately costing him his life.

The tundra made her think of the hunting trips she had accompanied him on, and the sight of animals reminded her of how they had worked together to prepare for the winter, skinning the animals that Robert had hunted, processing the meat so that it would remain fresh through the cold season.

Most of all, the house reminded her of him. They had built it together, laughing uproariously at their own mistakes, finally building a structure that could withstand the tundral winter and provide them with adequate shelter. Rose finally collected Robert's belongings and packed them away, covering the pack with a blanket so that she wouldn't have to see them and remember. She kept out only those things that she thought might be necessary for her own survival, alone in the wilderness, far from civilization, with a only a dog for company.

With little else to do, Rose spent long hours sitting before the fire, contemplating the past. The peace that she had once known in this land was gone, and it no longer felt like home. Memories of the past, of all of those that she had known before, came to her unbidden. Painful memories, happy ones—all converged upon her mind, tormenting her at times, but ultimately leaving her with a greater understanding. Her own isolation enabled her to contemplate things as she never had before, allowing her to see what had once been buried within her mind.

She thought of Robert first. His death was fresh in her mind, the grief still raw and undimmed by time. She often wept as she sat before the fire, wrapped in the bearskin, remembering their time together. She had always liked him, right from the morning she first met him at the boarding house in New York. He had brought her laughter, something that she had known far too little of in her life, and she had always been grateful for that. Though it had been a long time before she had fully trusted him, and even longer before she grew to love him, she had been glad to know him. He had been a friend to her, even when she was unable to accept any other kind of relationship, and his teasing had helped to bring her out of herself. He had stood by her, and by Alice, even when things were at their worst. It took a strong man to stay at the sides of those like herself and Alice, individuals who were so lost within themselves that they were unable to truly be a part of the world around them. Robert had understood, because he was a part of that internal world, and yet was able to interact with those about him in a sound way, even if it was with the intent of deriving as much pleasure from life as possible. He had openly pursued wine, women, and song, but had been stable and steady enough to understand those who he was closest to.

After she had fled New York, Rose hadn't expected to see him again. She had been more than slightly surprised when he had rescued her in the alley that night in New Orleans. How strange it was, she thought, the coincidences that had brought them together. She had been even more surprised when he had supported her efforts to promote civil rights for all people, but she had learned that he was a very tolerant, forgiving person, perhaps because of what he had seen and experienced. His willingness to accept her unconventional means of support, her often hazardous occupation as a street performer, and even his willingness to look past the trouble in her life had taught her that. He had even offered her a home, bringing her out of the rundown, dangerous section of New Orleans that she had been living in.

She had grown to love him all the more after they were married. He had respected her, respected her feelings and opinions, unlike most men that she had known. He had made no advances before the wedding, though she would have accepted them if he had. He had brought her with him to Alaska, encouraging her to overcome her fear of sailing, and brought her north with him, despite the warnings of others that the wilderness was no place for a woman. And she had survived—even when Robert had not. He had been friend, lover, and confidante, but he was gone now, and she was alone again.

Rose's thoughts turned to Cal. He had been her first fiancé, the first man who had come to her bed. Even now, after three years, she still abhorred him. She had been young and naive when she had become engaged to him, and he had taken advantage of her. He had never loved her, she knew, had probably hated her because of her resemblance to his mother. How different her life would have been, she thought, if she had married Cal instead of fleeing from her wedding on that June day in 1912. She would never have experienced the many things she had done, would never have met and married Robert. She might not be even be alive now, she realized, her hand going involuntarily to her throat, remembering the night he had attacked her in the alley. Running away from her wedding had been the smartest thing she had ever done, and she was still alive to think of it.

How different Cal had been from Robert. She had been engaged to both men, had slept with both of them, but she had never been able to feel anything but fear and hatred toward Cal. Outwardly, Cal had seemed the perfect gentleman, a high-ranking member of Philadelphia society, but inside he had been horribly warped, until whatever good he had once had become buried in cruelty and abusiveness. He had wanted to destroy those who reminded him of his mother, who had used him in such a terrible way, and Rose had become the victim of his anger.

There must have been a time, she thought, when Cal was like any other child, curious, optimistic, fascinated by the world around him. But his mother, for whatever twisted reasons, had done things to him that should never be done to a child, destroying his innocence, putting an end to whatever he might have become, eventually driving him to madness. She knew that he had loved his mother, and yet had hated her, hating her for what she was, but loving her as any child loves their mother, longing for her acceptance and approval, even when those things came at a dreadful price.

She realized, too, that she and Cal were much alike. She had never been abused, except by Cal himself, but she had seldom truly known happiness, and, while she had put on a perfect, happy facade for the other members of society, inside she had, like Cal, lived with her own personal hell. But there the similarity ended, for she had taken strength from her own trials, and gone on with life, doing the things that she had dreamed of, while Cal had tried to alleviate his inner torment by destroying those who he blamed for his agony. In spite of everything, Rose knew that she had done some worthwhile things in her life, while Cal had sought only to destroy that which could hurt him, and bury the past to be sure that no one ever knew of it.

Cal had hated Ruth, too, because of the imagined resemblance between her and his mother. Cal had a deep, undying hatred of red-haired women, because that was what he associated most with his own mother, and, in his mind, all other red-headed women were equally at fault. Rose remembered his words about his father's being in love with her mother, and sincerely hoped that Nathan Hockley truly had developed affection for her mother, keeping her from poverty and protecting her from his crazed son. Ruth had often been cool and distant, trying to raise her daughter as a proper member of the society she had adopted, but Rose could never hate her, not even for the engagement to Cal, and she hoped that Ruth was alive and well, wherever she was.

Ruth had been born into genteel poverty in 1875 Louisiana, not far from New Orleans. Her family had been wealthy plantation owners prior to the Civil War, but much of what they held had been destroyed by the war and its aftermath. Like many families, they had been unable to accept just how much things had changed, and had clung to a way of life that was gone, even as their world crumbled around them. They still had their name, and the memories of what had been, for them, a grander time, but they had refused to adapt to the changing world. Even in 1902, when the DeWitt Bukaters had visited them at Christmas, they had still been clinging to the vestiges of a life that was long gone.

Ruth had been unwilling to accept their fate, unlike the other members of her family, and had married Walter Bukater, a Yankee, in 1893. Her family had been against it from the start, as they considered the Yankees responsible for the downfall of the world they had known, never realizing that the rich, powerful society that the wealthy few in the South had created was in many ways responsible for its own demise. Northerners made for an easy scapegoat, and were in fact responsible for many of the changes that had taken place, good and bad, but the wealthy, elite society of the Southern aristocracy had been, in many ways, its own downfall. They had lived in their small, upper echelon society, seldom taking the time to really see what was going on around them, how the world itself was changing. Nor had they paid sufficient attention to the simmering, underlying tension of those less privileged; the enslaved, the impoverished. Even without the impetus of the Civil War, the South had been a fragmented society, and they had paid for their arrogance in the war.

After Ruth had moved with Walter to Philadelphia, she had had an uphill battle to become an accepted member of society. Walter Bukater had been old money, with roots and ties going back to the time of the colonies, but Ruth had been a Southerner, and, with the Civil War still well-remembered by so many—it had been only twenty-eight years since the war had ended—many wanted nothing to do with her. Ruth had always been a strong, stubborn woman, and she had climbed her way up the social ladder by sheer force of will. She had hired a tutor, and had learned to speak as a proper Philadelphian, losing her southern accent. She had immersed herself in the culture of the society she had adopted, until there was little left of the young southern woman who had come from Louisiana. Certain things still remained, such as the songs she remembered from her childhood, but she had tried to erase the past, and had tried to raise Rose as a proper young society lady.

Walter had never been as concerned with wealth and status as Ruth, having never known anything else. In many ways, he took for granted what he had, never really acknowledging that things could ever go sour, just as Ruth's family had never believed that the world they knew could come to an end. He had allowed Rose's free-spirited ways to thrive, never understanding the fear that Ruth had of her daughter being anything other than a member of the society she herself had worked so hard to become a part of.

Yet, even as Walter had turned a blind eye to Ruth and her feelings, his empire had been crumbling. Several bad years had set him back considerably, and, after the panic in 1907, he had never quite regained what he had before. The debts continued to mount, and he had secretly sold off the businesses to pay them, never letting on that anything was wrong. The strain had become to much for him, and he had died of a heart attack in December of 1910.

Ruth had been terrified, not only of poverty and the resultant loss of status, but also of being alone. She had always had someone else to look after her, and had never had to handle being on her own. She had too much pride to turn to her family, and had clung to Rose as her only means of keeping the status she had worked so hard to attain. She had arranged the engagement between Cal and Rose late in 1911, when it became evident that the money wouldn't last much longer, and had overlooked Cal's underlying faults because he was wealthy and well-respected in society.

Rose had done her best to make the relationship work, but it had been impossible. Cal was incapable of any real feelings, other than the underlying rage that had never been far from the surface, and she had realized early into their trip to Europe that things would never be quite right. Rose still felt guilty for abandoning her mother, leaving her to fend for herself, but she couldn't marry Cal. The consequences were unthinkable. Still, Rose often wished that she had contacted her mother at some point, though she felt that too much time had passed now for there to be any point in trying to find her, and she sincerely hoped that Ruth was alive and happy.

It was strange, Rose thought, how different people carried the burdens that life gave them. Her mother had tried to build a life for herself in a new world, but it was an illusion, a fleeting glimpse of what she truly wanted, which was acceptance. Ruth had pursued her dreams in the only way that she understood. Cal had been unable to stand under his burdens, and had gone mad, trying to destroy those he associated with his pain. She had fled from both of them, from the life she had known, but was she any better off? She had known little peace in these few years, and what little joy she did find was fleeting. She had been happy with Robert, but he was gone, and she was going on alone.

She thought of Alice. Alice had had many burdens on her shoulders, from the time she was a child. Her father had been a drunk and a gambler, and his family had been looked down upon because of that. Even after Alice and her mother and brother had come to New York, they had never known the respect that many took for granted. Alice's mother had been forced to prostitute herself to keep her children fed, and had worked herself to death in a cramped, filthy sweatshop, leaving her children to fend for themselves. Alice had been both mother and sister to her brother from a very early age, and had tried to make their lives better in the only way that she knew how.

Alice had been a girlie dancer and a prostitute from the age of fourteen, following in her mother's footsteps, realizing with the hard knowledge gained from life that this was probably the best she could expect. Even after she had gone to work in a respectable theater, she had wanted more out of life, but had been unable to attain it. It was never money that had driven Alice, it was the need for love and respect. She gave herself to any man who seemed to give her these things, assuring herself that she was always in control, though she was often hurt by those she placed her trust in. And yet, paradoxically, she had been unable to love and trust fully. She allowed others to hurt her in the name of love, but she could never bring herself to stay, even with those who could have given her what she needed. She had been a mother figure to her younger brother, and a loyal friend to a few, but she was never really able to let others in. She had never been able to deal with the feelings inside herself, with the hypocrisy of the world around her, and had drank to block out the sorrows of life. But the alcohol had never truly solved any problems, had in fact created more, and Alice had never really been able to experience the very things she longed for. In the end, Cal had ended whatever hopes and dreams she might have had, strangling her and leaving her in a deserted alley, connecting her with the mother he had both loved and hated.

Rose thought, too, of Marietta, the snobbish, scheming would-be actress who had made her life so miserable. She had never really known Marietta, had no idea who her family was, or where she had come from. Marietta had had few friends, and had often seemed to enjoy the power that she gained by gossiping and making others unhappy. Rose had pitied her, in a way, because Marietta had missed so much in life by alienating the other members of the troupe. Even when she had become involved with Richard, he had never really liked her, had been with her mainly because her worshipful attitude was a boon to his ego, and her willingness to do anything for him had guaranteed him a woman in his bed. Marietta had made enemies everywhere she went, considering herself above those who might have liked her, who might have helped her in her career. She had refused to acknowledge the attention of admirers, even going so far as to coldly tell a young teenage girl who had spoken to her admiringly that she would never have a chance of gaining any kind of success in an occupation like hers because she was too fat and ugly. The girl had left in tears, and the other members of the troupe had turned their backs on Marietta. She had appeared not to notice. Rose had never understood what could drive a person to be so cruel, and she never would. Marietta was gone now, her cruelty at an end, but Rose had never wished her dead. Marietta's death had been an accident, one that Rose would always regret.

As time went on, Rose's thoughts turned to those who seemed to have made something of their lives. She thought of Tom, who had faced so many trials in life, not the least of which were being the illegitimate son of a wealthy man, and his mixed racial heritage in a time and a place when race was one of the chief dividing lines between people. He had been born into slavery, although he had been very young when slavery had been abolished once and for all. In spite of everything, he had not become bitter, and had raised a family and lived a good, full life. He had accepted Rose, even in her sometimes offensive naiveté, and had stood by her while she learned what prejudice and ignorance really meant. He had been skeptical of her attempts to change things, but had gone along with her as she tried to show others how hatred, prejudice, and ignorance harmed them all. Though their efforts had not been highly successful, Rose knew that they had done the right thing, and knew that if even one person had been helped by their efforts, it was worth it.

Tom was a strong, intelligent man, stronger perhaps than those he would have called brother and sister in a more open world, and Rose was proud to be related to him. They were alike in many ways, with their intrinsic strength of character, pride, and ability to see past the surface of life to what was really there. Rose would never forget the months she had spent working with him on the streets of New Orleans, and hoped that he had found success in the open, tolerant environment of the American. He had withstood war, poverty, and tragedy in his life, and she hoped that this time he would prevail, as he deserved.

As spring began to creep over the tundra, and the days grew longer, Rose thought of Jack. What they had had was special, never to be matched by anything else she would experience. Jack had helped her to see what she could be, not believing that her life should be so closely linked to that of another that she had to marry someone that she didn't love, and had, in his own relaxed, free manner, shown her how to step outside the bounds of society and be herself, follow her own impulses. He had freed her spirit, loving and respecting her, though he had never said so. Rose had known how he felt, even without his telling her. She had known from the moment he had taken her down into steerage, dancing with her in a way that no first class man would have dared, ignoring her half-hearted protests because he knew she didn't mean them. When they had flown on the bow of the ship, only hours before it struck the iceberg and sank, she had finally let go of her inhibitions, allowing herself to give back the love he had shown her. When he had drawn her wearing the Heart of the Ocean, he had touched her soul in a way that no one else ever had, and he had taken a part of her heart from then on. They had been more than just friends and lovers; their souls had been joined.

It was Jack who had given the strength to go on, the ability to look deep inside herself for the strength that was there. It had been that strength that had given her the courage to back into the sinking ship to rescue him after Cal had framed him, to jump out of the lifeboat to be with him, and to find a way to get into a boat even after he was gone. Later, that memory had given her the courage to leave Cal behind and start her own life, even though she knew little of the world outside high society. Though Rose had loved Robert, a part of her heart would always belong to Jack. She had loved him, and that love would always be a part of her.

He might have left a part of himself, of his physical self, with her, she knew, remembering the baby that she had lost. Though she could never be sure whether it had been Cal or Jack who had been the father of the baby she had lost, it had been her child, and she would have given up her freedom for it, if it had lived. But it hadn't, and she had never been able to forgive Cal for hitting her, for making her lose it.

After she had married Robert, she had thought about having a child. They had discussed it one night, lying in their bed, snuggled close after making love. Rose had known how dangerous it would be to have a baby in the wilderness, far from help if something went wrong, and elected to wait until they returned to civilization in the spring. She knew for certain now that she had not conceived, though if she had she would have returned to the cities and raised her child alone. A part of her wished that she had not waited to start a child, even though she knew that it was better that way, and inside, she wondered if she would ever have a baby. She was only twenty years old, and had plenty of time, but life had dealt her so many blows that she wondered if she would ever be able to settle down and raise a family like other women did.

As the snow began to melt, and the short Arctic spring greened the tundra, Rose realized that the time had come to make a decision, of whether she would stay where she was, working her claim, maybe someday finding again the peace that she had lost, or whether she would return to the safety of civilization, with towns and people and the ordinary patterns of life.

As summer approached, Rose finally made up her mind. She would return to civilization, going far to the south, where she would never again have to lose a loved one to the bitter cold, as she had lost Robert and Jack.


	52. The Adventurer 14

Chapter Fifty-Two

May, 1915

By the middle of May, the ground had melted enough for Rose to dig a grave on a nearby tundral hillock. It was high enough to overlook the river, and the ground was soft enough for a fairly deep grave to be dug.

It took two days of work, but Rose finally managed to dig a grave six feet long, three feet wide, and five feet deep, using a hand trowel, a sharp shovel carved from bone, and finally an ax to break up the permafrost four feet down. She wished that she could dig a deeper grave, but the permafrost made it nearly impossible. She was lucky to have been able to dig down as deep as she had.

That afternoon, Rose removed Robert's body from the storage pit, clearing away the rocks and carting them near to where he would be buried. It took a great deal of effort to lift the body from the pit, but somehow she managed it. Robert's body was a heavy weight; he had weighed nearly two hundred pounds in life, and in death seemed even heavier. Her grief added to the weight of her burden, making it even more difficult to complete this necessary task.

Rose was surprised at how little decay there was in the body. The cold had kept it well-preserved, and Robert almost appeared to be sleeping, except for the coldness of his body. Bringing the bearskin from the house, she placed it fur side down on the grass and pulled Robert onto it. Slowly, she dressed him in his best clothes, and then wrapped the bearskin around him, tying it closed. Attaching ropes to the ties, she slowly dragged him up to his grave.

Ordering Tripper to guard Robert, Rose walked down to the river several times, bringing more rocks to cover the grave. When they were piled nearby, she stopped for a moment, looking out at the river, her body aching from the exertion.

She wished that she didn't have to do this, wished that she would wake up and discover that it had all been a dream, but she knew she wouldn't. The time had come to say her final good-bye, and couldn't be delayed.

Carefully, Rose eased the body into the grave, wrapping the ropes around nearby shrubs and slowly lowering the bearskin wrapped bundle into the earth. She stood looking at the lonely hole in the ground, realizing that few people would remember Robert, and only she would ever know where he was buried.

Someone like Robert, who had been filled such life and vitality, should have been remembered by many people, should have had a funeral with a crowd surrounding the grave, remembering him. Instead, there was only Rose, standing atop a lonely tundral hillock, miles from any other human being. Robert had known so many people in his life, but in the end he was alone. Rose would not, could not, stay in the wilderness, and Robert's lonely grave would be left behind. She would never know if someone else found it, or even if it remained intact, undefiled by predators.

If the grave ever was found by anyone else, they wouldn't realize who he had been, or what his life had meant. He would be just another hapless victim of the wilderness, one who had been lucky enough to be buried, but still left behind and forgotten. No one would know that he had been loved and cared for, that he had been a man of uncommon tolerance and understanding. He would simply be another person who disappeared into the wilderness, never to return.

Rose quailed at the unfairness of such an end—he would be forgotten, his life and the things he had done unacknowledged by anyone, save her and perhaps his relatives in Cedar Rapids, if she made it back to civilization to tell them. A few other people might remember him, might wonder what had happened to him, but few would really care. After all that he had done, all that he had lived through, his life would mean nothing.

Rose couldn't bear the thought, and decided to leave behind a memorial, something to show that someone had cared, that he hadn't simply been forgotten and left behind, something that would show anyone that happened to find him that he had meant something to someone. But what would be a fitting memorial?

Rose sat beside the open grave, reflecting upon what might mean enough to be a memorial. At last, she realized what she could leave.

Rose returned to the house and picked up a small pouch of gold dust that they had kept in the house, tucking it into her pocket. Then, she dug through her pack, emptying the contents out until she found what she was looking for—the Heart of the Ocean. Clutching both items in one hand, she made her way back to the grave.

Unwrapping the bearskin, Rose placed the gold dust in Robert's right hand and the diamond in his left. Almost as an afterthought, she removed her rings and placed them in his hand along with the diamond, curling his hand closed around the items. The pieces of jewelry had been her most valued possessions—not because of what they were worth in money, but because of what they meant to her. She had carried the Heart of the Ocean around with her for three years, a memorial to a time that was gone, and it seemed fitting to bury it with her second love. The rings had represented love, and freedom, and a peace and happiness that she had seldom truly known before. Robert had brought those things to her, and she would carry them with her in her heart when she left, but she would leave the symbols with the man who had given them to her.

As Rose stood, she saw Tripper curled up beside the grave, looking at her with mournful eyes. Though only she and the dog were present, Rose felt that Robert deserved a funeral of some sort, and knew at once what would be right—something that both mourned his death and celebrated his life.

Taking a fistful of dirt, she squeezed her hand around it, as though filling it with her love, before dropping it atop the bearskin shroud. Her jaw set, Rose pushed the dirt back into the hole, scraping it in with the trowel and bone shovel. Afterwards, she walked back and forth across the grave, tamping down the soil, packing it in so that it would be harder for predators to dig up. She knew the significance of walking on a grave, but knew that this time it was necessary, and thought that Robert would forgive her.

Slowly, Rose walked back and forth from the pile of rocks, covering the grave with them and spreading them around for several feet to deter animals from digging. When she was done, she stood back, looking down at the pile of rocks, all that remained to show that Robert had ever lived at all.

Choking back tears, Rose began to sing—songs of memorial, acknowledging Robert's life and the love she had felt for him. The high, sweet notes of _Amazing Grace_ sounded across the tundra, disappearing into the distance.

When the song had faded away, she sang a song that Robert had appreciated in life, a ribald ballad that he had sung in the vaudeville show in New York, and which he had always teased her with as they traveled north into the Alaskan wilderness. She even managed a smile at some of the lyrics, remembering how she had blushed the first time she had heard the song.

Rose finished off the musical service with the song _Nearer My God To Thee_, which had always been a song of mourning to her, but had taken on even more significance after it had been played while the Titanic sank. It seemed a fitting song to mourn the loss of one who had died from the cold, as had so many before.

Sinking to her knees beside the grave, Rose finally allowed her tears to flow, weeping in grief. It was truly over now. Robert was gone, and she was alone again, as she had been so many times before. It was time now for her to move on, to continue with the life that she seemed meant to lead. Happiness had been a fleeting, ephemeral thing, but she was glad to have experienced it, glad to have enjoyed this one short time in a life filled with sorrow.

Rose looked up briefly as Tripper raised his nose to the sky and howled, as though mourning the death of his master. From across the tundra, wolves howled in reply, and it seemed to Rose that the wilderness itself was crying with her.


	53. The Adventurer 15

Chapter Fifty-Three

The next day, Rose packed everything she needed for her journey south. As she sorted through the remaining items that they had put away for the winter, she remembered all that Robert had taught her, all the things they had done together. Each item held a memory.

Finally, however, Rose selected what to take and what to leave behind. There was much more left over than there should have been, with only her to consume it, and she had to make some decisions.

She packed up as much food as she thought she needed for the journey, knowing that she could fish and forage along the way if she needed to. Everything that she had brought with her into the wilderness, as long as it hadn't worn out, she also brought with her, as well as a few items of clothing that she had made while there. She wouldn't have much use for heavy fur parkas or fur-lined mittens and boots where she was going, but she packed them along anyway. She was still in Alaska for the time being, and might have use for them.

After packing the camping equipment and several bags of gold dust and gold nuggets, she didn't think she could carry any more. Cleaning out the hut where she had spent the winter, she put most of the remaining items into the storage pits, covering them with rocks to keep predators out. As an afterthought, she used a piece of charcoal to indicate the contents of the pits, realizing that another traveler might find them useful.

Before she left, Rose walked onto the tundra to visit Robert's grave one last time. Along the way, she picked a bouquet of spring wildflowers, placing them atop the pile of rocks. No predator had yet touched the grave. Looking at it, Rose pulled the piece of charcoal from her pocket and wrote on the largest rock.

In Loving Memory  
Robert Calvert  
1890-1915

It was the only outward memorial she could give him. Standing back, she looked at the charcoal inscription, wondering how long the words would last, and if anyone would ever look beneath the pile of rocks to find the man buried there.

Rose left the claim that afternoon. Returning to the hut, she looked around the be sure that she hadn't forgotten anything, then loaded a small pack on Tripper and a larger pack on her own back. It was heavy, but she was much stronger now than she had been when she had started out the previous June. She had lived in the wilderness, and had learned how to survive and take care of herself.

At last, she walked away, following the river back toward the south. As she reached the top of the ridge, she turned back one last time and looked back.

She could clearly see the place on the river where she and Robert had panned for gold, where they had foraged and fished—and where Robert had fallen through the ice. She had never gone back out on the ice after that, nor had she continued the search for gold after the ice melted. The memories were too painful.

The house was also visible from the ridge, looking like a grassy cave in the distance. If she had been standing behind it, it would have almost blended in with the landscape. The little house had served them well after they had built it, and she wondered if some other traveler or gold-seeker might use it. It had been built well enough to withstand the winter, despite their lack of experience in building anything, and it might well stand for years yet. There was no real way of knowing. Rose would not be coming back.

Looking to the west, Rose could see, faintly, the pile of rocks that marked Robert's grave. She stood looking at it for a long moment before she turned away, Tripper following her.

Following the river, Rose headed south, never looking back.


	54. The Adventurer 16

Chapter Fifty-Four

For the next six weeks, Rose continued her journey south, Tripper at her side. It was a dangerous journey under any circumstances, and even moreso for a woman alone, but she had Tripper to guard her, and her own knowledge of the wilderness and of ways to defend herself, and she arrived in Juneau unscathed.

The town hadn't changed much in the past year. There were a few more buildings, a few more people, but it was still mostly the raw, edge-of-the-wilderness town that it had been when she and Robert had left the previous June.

It was late in June when she arrived, just past the summer solstice, and the days were long. Her fortunes were considerably better than when she had first arrived the year before, and she quickly found a place to stay, ignoring the stares of townspeople who wondered what a woman alone was doing there, dressed like a man and taking care of herself.

After she was rested, Rose found a store with a few women's garments for sale, and bought some civilized clothes. Most of the few garments she had taken with her had long since worn out, and the other items—the trousseau that Deborah had bought for her—were inappropriate to wear in public.

Women were still scarce, and more than one man stared at her as she walked along the streets. Rose paid them little attention. She wasn't for sale, and had no intention of encouraging them. By the end of the second day, she had booked passage in steerage on a ship heading for San Francisco. She had had to pay extra to bring Tripper along, but she wouldn't leave the animal behind. He had been her only companion for a long time.

Three days later, Rose set sail toward San Francisco, her face turned south.


	55. The Stranger 1

Chapter Fifty-Five

July 10, 1915

On July 10, 1915, Rose disembarked from the ship in San Francisco. After making a brief stop at a post office to send a letter to the Calverts in Iowa about Robert's death, she made her way into the city toward Deborah's home.

Deborah greeted her with open arms, not understanding at first Rose's sorrowful expression. "Where's Robert?" she asked, wondering if he was off taking care of business.

Rose just shook her head and followed Deborah into the house. "He's dead, Debbie. He fell through the ice last winter and got pneumonia. He died just a few days later."

Deborah's eyes were filled with sympathy. "Oh, Rosie, I'm so sorry! You finally found someone to love, and he was just taken away from you."

"I guess I should have expected it," Rose replied gloomily.

Deborah was about to ask her what she meant by that when a wailing from upstairs interrupted them.

"Grace is through with her nap," Deborah told her.

"Grace? You have a daughter?"

Deborah nodded proudly. "Yes. A beautiful little girl with curly honey-brown hair. She was born on September 22, 1914."

"I missed a lot while I was away."

"You certainly did. Not just things like this, but...did you know that Europe is at war?"

"I heard something like that in Juneau."

"I just hope that we don't get into it. I don't know what I would do if Will went over there."

Rose didn't reply. She no longer had anyone to worry about.

Deborah wheeled herself into the elevator, Rose following. "I've hired a nanny to help take care of Grace, but she has today off," she explained, making her way down the hall toward the nursery. Rose followed her, looking forward to meeting Deborah's baby girl.

Grace lay in her crib, crying. When she saw her mother, she abruptly stopped crying and gave a grin, showing several small teeth. Her curly hair stuck out in several directions, mussed from her nap. She pulled herself up on the bars of the crib, staring at her mother's guest.

Deborah carefully unlatched the special door on the side of the crib and lifted her daughter out.

"We had a bassinet for her at first, one that was low to the ground so I could reach her, but when she started to grow, we had a crib specially made. I just hope she doesn't learn to unlatch it."

Grace sat in her mother's lap, staring with wide eyes at Rose.

"Did you have an easy birth?" Rose asked, gazing at the baby.

"It went amazingly well, considering. I didn't have to have a Cesarean section after all. She was born the normal way."

"Was it painful?"

"The contractions were, because I have full feeling in my back and stomach. But it wasn't so bad when she got born. I felt something when I was pushing her out, but it wasn't really painful. I was surprised, because I'd never felt anything there before."

"You mean, in your stomach?"

"No. The...the birth canal."

"You never felt anything there before at all?" Rose looked at her friend in amazement.

"Rosie! That's not a nice question."

"Sorry."

"No, never before that. But...I can still feel now," Deborah told her slyly. Rose blushed.

"You're healing then? From your back injury?"

"I don't know. I still can't walk, but I have regained a little feeling. Maybe someday..." She let the sentence trail off. Deborah still longed to be able to walk, but it had been so many years since she had been able to that she had pretty much given up hope. "Would you like to hold her?" she asked Rose, holding the baby out to her.

Gingerly, Rose took the baby, settling into a rocking chair with her. Grace gazed her in fascination, tugging at a red curl.

Rose gazed back at the baby, allowing her to continue playing with her hair. She gave Grace a tentative smile, and the little girl looked at her solemnly for a moment, then turned on her bright baby smile.

Rose thought longingly of babies, thinking about the children that she and Robert would never have. She had thought to start a family when they returned to civilization, but it wasn't going to happen now. Maybe one day she would marry again, but not right away.

Deborah watched her with Grace, noticing the longing look in Rose's eyes. "You'd like a baby, wouldn't you?" she asked, as Rose made Grace giggle with a game of peek-a-boo.

Rose sighed. "I wanted to start a family when I returned to civilization, but I never thought that I would wind up a widow when I was only nineteen."

"Maybe you'll find someone else, in time."

"Maybe." Rose gave Grace to Deborah and walked to the window, looking out at the summer city. "Robert and I...took precautions to insure that I didn't get pregnant out in the wilderness." She turned back to Deborah. "I'm not sure if you know what I'm referring to..."

"I do. The doctor gave me some of those things when I got married, because giving birth could be dangerous for a woman like me. But after a few months I decided that I wanted a child, and threw caution to the wind. And now...I have little Grace."

"I almost wish that the precautions had failed," Rose told her. "Even though it's difficult for a woman alone to raise a child, I would have loved and cared for one if I had had it."

"Of course you would," Deborah assured her. "And it's no sin for a widow to have a child. But you're right, women alone have a hard time of it. Do you remember that maid back in Philadelphia who had an out-of-wedlock child, how people taunted her and her son?"

"I remember." Rose wondered if that would have been the fate of the baby she had lost, if it had lived.

"Perhaps one day you'll find another husband, another good man. You can't replace those you lose, but you can learn to love others."

"I know," Rose whispered, wiping tears from her eyes as she looked out the window. "I almost had a baby," she blurted out suddenly.

"With Robert?"

"No. A long time ago. Before I met him, when I was still with Caledon Hockley. If it had lived, it would have been two and a half years old now." She turned around, expecting to see Deborah looking at her in condemnation.

Deborah just looked at her in sympathy. "Oh, Rose, how awful. I don't know what I would have done if I had lost Grace. What happened?"

"Cal got upset with me one day, and punched me in the stomach. I lost the baby a few hours later. I hadn't even known I was with child." She turned back around. "I never forgave him for that."

"Did Cal know about the baby?"

Rose shook her head. "No. I've never told anyone, until now. Not even Mother knew."

"You went through all that alone?"

"I didn't have any choice. Mother would have been so shocked if she had known...you remember how much emphasis she put on proper behavior."

"I remember. She didn't even like you running or climbing trees. A miscarriage would have shocked her horribly, I'm sure, especially since you weren't married."

Rose nodded, not going into further details. Better that Deborah thought that Cal had been the father of her child. Rose still couldn't talk about Jack, and, at any rate, she didn't know who the father of that baby had been. She supposed she might have found out, if it had lived, unless it looked like her. Then there would have been no telling who the father was.

"Rosie...you could have died."

"I almost wished that I would...I was so unhappy about the upcoming marriage to Cal, and it would have been an easy way out. But I didn't die; I'm still here. And I'm glad I'm alive, in spite of everything."

"You're a strong person, Rose. A lot of people would have given up after all you've been through. But you've kept going."

"A long time ago, someone made me promise to never give up. I've kept that promise."

"Someone said that to me once, too."

Rose looked at her. "Who?"

"The artist who drew my picture in Santa Monica all those years ago. I was still unhappy about my lot in life, and I kind of said as much. He told me that life was precious, and that I shouldn't give up on things just because they were difficult. And he was right. I've lived a lot since then." She looked at the baby in her lap.

Rose looked back out the window, hiding her tears. How like Jack to say that, to reassure someone that there was a reason to go on, even when hope seemed to be gone. Wiping her eyes, she turned back to her friend.

"Rosie..." Deborah gave her a hug. "You're not alone, you know. You can stay here as long as you want."

"Thank you, Debbie," Rose told her. But even as she said the words, she knew that she couldn't stay.


	56. The Stranger 2

Chapter Fifty-Six

Rose stayed with the Hutchisons for a few days, resting from her long journey. It was pleasant there, with Will and Deborah doing their best to cheer her and keep her entertained, but Rose was restless. Baby Grace crawled around the mansion under the watchful eyes of her nanny, Deborah, and Rose, reminding Rose painfully of what might have been.

After a couple of days, Rose and Deborah went into the city to exchange Rose's wilderness gear for more civilized items. The knapsack, camping gear, and men's clothing that had suited Rose so well in the wilderness had little use in the city, but she was able to sell them to a second-hand shop. Travelers still came and went from the city, as well as vacationers and ranch and farm workers, so she was able to obtain a reasonable price for her belongings.

After she sold most of what she had brought back with her from Alaska, Rose purchased an inexpensive suitcase at a department store. Deborah looked at her sorrowfully when she saw this purchase, knowing that Rose was preparing to leave again, but didn't try to stop her. She had seen her friend's restlessness, and had known that it was only a matter of time before Rose moved on.

Rose had brought several of the small bags of gold with her on their excursion, and went to a bank to exchange the dust and nuggets for cash. Most merchants in the city didn't know how to judge the value of the gold, and had no way of weighing it or placing it in their cash registers in any case.

Armed with more than sufficient funds—what she had obtained for the gold was enough to last her for months, if she spent wisely, and she had more gold still at the Hutchison's home—Rose returned to the department store with Deborah, making her way through the ladies' clothing department and buying more garments than she had since she was a member of high society. Simple, practical dresses, skirts, and blouses made of cotton, linen, or wool, suitable undergarments and stockings, practical shoes, and even a nice dress that could be worn to church or a daytime party, if not an evening function.

Trying the clothes on, looking at herself in a mirror for the first time in months, Rose had to admit that she liked the way the dresses looked. The styles had changed somewhat, with the skirts fuller and easier to walk in than some of the previous fashionable garments she had worn, and they were a nice change from the shirts and trousers she had worn in Alaska, and from the cheap, ill-fitting dress she had bought when she returned to civilization. Most of the clothes were simple and practical, like those she had worn for years, but they were new and not well-worn as her old dresses had been. Rose smoothed her hands over the nice dress she had selected. Most of her old dresses were now weather-beaten, faded strips of cloth marking the way they had traveled along the tundra.

The Hutchisons were sorry to see Rose go. During the brief times that Rose had been with them over the past few years, she and Deborah had become closer than ever, sharing confidences and dreams just as they had as children, but their memories and dreams were different now, more grown up, and Deborah understood, in her own way, Rose's need to travel on.

The traveling Shakespeare troupe that Rose had once belonged to was in town, and Will and Deborah offered to take her to a play, but Rose was still unable to face the people she had once worked with and called her friends. She knew from reading the newspaper reviews that Richard was still the leading man, and Evelyn had moved into the role of leading lady, but she couldn't go back and see them. Not after the way that her time with troupe had ended. Marietta still haunted Rose, and she didn't think she could even set foot inside the theater where her rival had died.

Rose went places with the Hutchisons a couple of times, but for the most part she stayed at the mansion, wheeling Deborah around the neighborhood and visiting with Mrs. Hill, or taking tea with a few of Deborah's friends. Often, she and Deborah would sit out front, looking over the carefully manicured lawn and flower gardens, watching Grace play or the dogs wrestle.

It amused Rose to watch the enormous Tripper, a grand mixture of malamute and mutt, wrestling with the tiny Lamb, Deborah's pet toy poodle. Tripper could have crushed the smaller dog simply by sitting on him, or sent him flying with one wag of his tail, but Lamb always seemed to win their wrestling matches, and Tripper accepted Lamb's dominance, rolling over and showing his belly when the smaller dog snarled. Lamb had lived in the Hutchison mansion for several years, while Tripper was a newcomer to this strange environment. Tripper, like many dogs who had been raised in groups, understood the canine laws of dominance, and rarely challenged the established dog.

Surprisingly, for a dog who had never been exposed to children before, Tripper had also taken a liking to Grace. The baby could crawl all over him, pull herself to her feet using handfuls of his fur, and even poke curious fingers into his mouth and eyes. Tripper tolerated the little girl, sometimes lying there with a long-suffering look, other times licking the child's face until she giggled. Grace would stuff handfuls of food into the dog's mouth, and then screech furiously when she pried open his mouth and found that the food was gone. Tripper also lay beneath her high chair at mealtimes, waiting for her to drop tidbits on the floor, though he had to compete with Lamb for these bits of food.

Initially, Deborah was wary of the dog and her child. Tripper bore some resemblance to a wolf, and she wasn't entirely trusting of the dog. However, as the days passed and Tripper's only response to the baby's overzealousness was to crawl under the couch or beg to be let outside, she relaxed. Tripper seemed to know not to bite the child, or even to rough house with her as he did Lamb. He seemed to understand that the baby had neither the speed nor the agility of a dog, and never harmed her.

After about ten days, Rose decided that it was time to leave. She had thought carefully about her destination, and had at last decided that she wanted to continue further south, this time to Los Angeles. She could easily have returned to New Orleans, but she didn't really want to go back. Much as she had liked New Orleans, with her singing career on the streets and her level-headed great-uncle keeping her from flying off the handle, she wanted to go somewhere new. Los Angeles, she thought, would be a good place to start over. She might even try her hand at film acting.

And so, on July 20, 1915, the Hutchisons drove Rose to the train station. She had packed her few belongings into her suitcase, and led Tripper along on a leash. The animal disliked the leash, but she couldn't let him run free as she had in the wilderness; things were different in the city. He had already gotten loose once, only to be brought back by an angry neighbor of the Hutchisons, and she didn't intend to let it happen again.

"You know you'll always be welcome here, Rose," Deborah told her as they waited for the train in the busy, milling station.

Rose hugged her friend. "I know. I may even be back someday. But for now, though, I think I need to move on. I don't know what I'm going to find, but whatever it is, I'll find it. Maybe I'll be a film actress. I always wanted to try that."

Deborah nodded. "I'll look for you in the moving pictures, Rosie. And I do understand, I think, why you need to get away. There were times when I wanted to get away, but I never could. You're lucky, Rose. You can. Good luck. I hope life is good to you."

"Thank you, Debbie." Rose picked up her suitcase and took Tripper's leash, then turned to Will. "Thank you both, for all you've done for me. I'll write you as soon as I get the chance."

The train pulled in, and Rose tugged on her pet's leash, leading him toward the train. Tripper whined in fear of the strange vehicle, filled with noisy, jostling people. Rose coaxed him onto the train, finding herself a seat and encouraging the dog to lay down on the floor. Several people stared at the animal, but Rose had paid extra to bring him with her, and she knew that the dog would be more comfortable in her presence.

As the whistle blew, and the train began to move away, Rose leaned out the window and waved good-bye, wondering when, or if, she would ever see her friends again. She was starting a new chapter of her life, alone again.


	57. The Stranger 3

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Rose arrived in Los Angeles two days later. After spending the first couple of days in a hotel, she finally found a small apartment that allowed dogs, and moved in. She hadn't yet found any kind of work, but she had enough money to last her for a while, so that wasn't immediately worrisome.

As soon as she had found a place to live, and gotten moved in, Rose set about learning all that she could about the film industry. There were a wide variety of jobs beyond acting, but she already had more than a year of experience as an actress, and wanted to continue.

Despite her stage experience, Rose had far less training in acting than many would-be stars, and she soon learned that Alice's comments about casting couches were correct. After two men had propositioned her, promising her starring roles in exchange for sex, she decided that there must be an easier way to become a film actress. She had long ago promised herself that she would never be a prostitute, and selling herself in exchange for stardom was something she was unwilling to do. Beyond that, she remembered what she had been told about the way that some directors would renege on their end of the bargain, and carefully avoided such arrangements.

After about two weeks, Rose took the suggestion of one of her neighbors and signed up as a film extra. The work didn't pay much, compared to what the stars were making, and the hours were long, but it was clean, honest work, and it gave her the opportunity to act and be seen in moving pictures. Over the course of two months, from early August to early October, Rose appeared in three films as an extra. In the first, she was a Biblical woman; in the second, a dancer; and in the third, a woman from the time of the French revolution. She didn't get much screen time in any of the films, but she was working as an actress again.

Rose soon adjusted to life in Los Angeles. It was a smaller city than many she had lived in, but it was growing, though nothing like it would thirty years in the future, following the second world war. Still, it was an urban center, and people from all over the world lived there. The weather was usually warm, especially in the summer and early fall, and Rose appreciated the long, hot days.

When she wasn't working, Rose would make the short trip to the beach, usually bringing Tripper with her. The large dog hated being cooped up in the small apartment all day, but Rose couldn't let him roam freely as she had when she was living in Alaska. The territory was unfamiliar, the neighbors unappreciative of the large, wolf-like animal, and she kept the dog inside while she was away working. When she returned home each day, she would take him for long walks on a leash, occasionally fighting to control him as he raced to chase cats or investigate other dogs. On the beach, however, she could remove the leash and let him run free as many other dogs did, keeping a careful eye on him to insure that he didn't bother anyone, steal anyone's food, or fight with other dogs.

As time passed, Rose met some of her fellow extras, and her neighbors. She saw a few of a the big stars, but rarely came into contact with them, and most of her contact with directors was when the groups of extras were being instructed to do something.

Many of the people that she met were friendly, but Rose found herself unable to get close to any of them. There was a fair amount of competition between the extras, which curtailed many attempts at friendship, and, despite the friendliness of some of her neighbors, she was unable to form a bond with them. She was polite, acquainting herself with them and occasionally visiting with some, but she soon gained a reputation for being aloof and unreachable. Several young men took an interest in her, but Rose could not return their interest. It had been only a few months since Robert had died, and she felt unready for any new relationships.

Part of Rose's aloofness was due to her still-fresh grief, but another part came from a deep, disturbing suspicion that she would bring grief to anyone she got close to. So many of those she had been close to had died that she was beginning to suspect that she was cursed, that something destructive followed her about, dooming any attempts at happiness. Logically, she knew it wasn't true, but her mind, trying to protect her from further pain, kept her emotions in check, keeping her from becoming close to others.


	58. The Stranger 4

Chapter Fifty-Eight

October 12, 1915

Around the middle of October, Rose finally got the courage to visit Santa Monica. She had avoided doing so before, telling herself that she was too busy, but the real reason was that she was fighting against her memories of Jack, and feared that visiting the place they had talked about would bring back the memories and overwhelm her.

When she finally did visit, Rose took the train to Santa Monica, bringing Tripper with her. The dog had grown much more used to people, and civilization, and didn't fight her when she brought him on the train with her. People still stared, but the animal had grown used to them, and simply curled up at Rose's feet for the short trip.

Once there, Rose wandered around the pier, taking in all the sights and sounds. She could almost imagine how Jack had seen it, back in 1911, before he had left for Europe. People walked around, talking, laughing, enjoying themselves, while small children ran around or clung to their mother's hands, some enjoying themselves, others squalling tiredly.

She stopped for a moment at a worn wooden bench, recognizing the spot from the drawing that Deborah had shown her. This was where Jack had done his drawings. She could almost feel his presence.

Walking on, Rose made her way into the amusement park, eyeing all of the buildings, booths, and carts selling food and souvenirs. In the distance, she could see the rides—including the roller coaster. She stopped as she drew near, wondering if she could get up the courage to ride it.

The roller coaster rose several stories into the air, and she could hear the delighted screams of people riding it. She stared, debating whether to try it or not, then shrugged. Why not? If she didn't like it, she didn't have to go again.

Rose looked around, wondering what to do with Tripper while she rode the roller coaster. Certainly she couldn't bring him with her. Finally, she approached a teenage boy who stood near a food stand, looking bored.

"Excuse me," she said to him. He turned, looking at her with interest.

"Yeah?"

"Could you watch my dog for me while I ride the roller coaster? I'll pay you fifteen cents," she added, when he looked reluctant.

He shrugged. "Okay."

Rose handed him Tripper's leash, instructing the dog in a firm voice to behave, then handed the boy a nickel and a dime. He took the money, still looking at her with interest.

Rose bought her ticket for the roller coaster, then stood in line, waiting. Her heart pounded as she watched the cars on the ride go around the track at a dizzying speed. This was what she and Jack had talked about doing—riding the roller coaster, drinking cheap beer, riding horses in the surf—but she was doing them alone.

Her turn finally came, and Rose stepped into a roller coaster car, seated beside a young girl who turned to shout to her friends, then squealed in delight as the ride began.

Rose held onto the bar in front of her, terrified at first. Then, as the car passed the first dip, she shrieked in delight with the other passengers, beginning to enjoy herself. As the roller coaster rose and dipped around the track, she laughed and shouted in delight, echoing the girl sitting beside her.

When the ride ended, Rose returned to where she had left her dog, staggering a bit dizzily. The ride had been delightful, though she was ready to try something else now. She only wished that Jack had been there to enjoy it with her.

Putting the thought from her mind, Rose retrieved Tripper's leash, laughing as the large dog jumped up on her, licking her face as though she had been gone for days, instead of just half an hour. The boy looked at her.

"Hey...uh...you wanna go get a soda or something?" he asked, jingling the coins she had given him.

Rose looked at him. He reminded her of many of the "stage-door Johnnies" that she had met in her career as an actress—eager to escort her around, hoping that she might reward them with something more.

"No, thanks," she told him. "Thank you for watching my dog, though."

"Sure," he replied, a bit deflated. He caught sight of the girl Rose had sat beside on the roller coaster and sauntered after her, forgetting that he'd just been rejected.

Rose smiled to herself, walking away into the crowd with Tripper trotting ahead of her. She stopped to buy some beer, much to the surprise of the man selling it, and wandered through the amusement park, stopping occasionally to buy a snack or play some game.

Around the middle of the afternoon, Rose wandered toward the beach, wondering if she could find a place to rent a horse. She was a bit leery about riding—she hadn't ridden a horse since before she had set sail on Titanic, and then she had been riding sidesaddle—but it was one of the things she and Jack had talked about doing, and she was determined to try it.

About a mile down the beach, she came across a small rental stable. She approached it, hoping that they would not object to the presence of Tripper.

The owner was a bit nervous about the large dog, but he agreed to rent Rose a horse anyway, one that wasn't likely to shy around dogs. He led the horse, a chestnut mare, from the stable and inquired as to whether Rose knew how to ride.

Rose hesitated a little at this question; she did know how to ride, but only sidesaddle, and this horse was wearing a regular saddle. However, she was set on trying, and told the man that she did know how to ride. A bit skeptically, he let her take the horse, helping her mount, and Rose made her way out onto the beach.

She found herself a little wobbly at first, and wished that there was someone who could help her figure out how to ride astride, but she soon got the hang of it, and began to walk the horse slowly up and down the beach, Tripper trotting along beside the horse.

As she grew more confident, Rose urged the horse to go faster, laughing in delight as they flew over the sand. Tripper raced along beside them, barking.

The tide was coming in when Rose turned the mare into the shallow water at the edge of the beach, sending her splashing through the tide. The dog followed, stopping to shake whenever he was drenched by a wave. Rose threw her head back and laughed. It was the first time she had gotten so close to the water since the Titanic had sunk.

As she was returning to the stable, a couple of tourists stopped her. They had been watching her ride along the surfline, and wanted a picture of her on the horse.

Rose objected at first, but when the woman pulled out one of the new instant picture cameras, she finally agreed. The woman took two pictures, both of Rose sitting on the horse with the roller coaster in the background. The sun was beginning to set, but there was still enough light for the photographs, and the couple kept one picture for themselves while giving the other to Rose.

Rose looked at the photograph after she had returned the mare. She looked a little odd, she supposed—she was wearing trousers instead of a skirt—but what struck her most was the expression on her face. She was smiling, her eyes lit up and full of life. In the background, the roller coaster stood high above her. Coming to Santa Monica, and doing all the things she and Jack had talked about doing, had been a good idea.

Rose carefully tucked the photograph into her bag as she called to Tripper, putting the leash back on him and heading for the train to go home.


	59. The Stranger 5

Chapter Fifty-Nine

November 12, 1915

Rose stood on the beach, looking out across the water. No one was around. A chill wind whipped her hair around her face and sent the surf crashing against the beach.

Sighing, Rose wrapped her arms around herself for warmth and walked across the sand. A cold rain began to fall, dampening the sand above the surfline. No boats were on the water today, and no families cavorted in the shallow water at the edge of the sea. The beach was deserted.

Ignoring the wind and rain, Rose sat down on the sand away from the water, still looking out across the sea. It was endless, she thought, going on forever. No one could see across it, and the distant lands on the other side of the Pacific were only a dream.

She pulled her knees up to her chin, picking up a handful of sand and running it through her fingers. She hadn't worked in weeks. After her initial success as a film extra, she had found herself unable to find work. The competition was fierce, and, despite her love of acting, she had found that her heart wasn't really in it.

Money wasn't a problem, of course. She had plenty of money left from the gold she had exchanged in San Francisco. Her needs were few, and she saw little reason to indulge in unnecessary purchases. Her apartment had been furnished by her landlord, and she had only added a few of her own decorations to the small living space. Living alone, she needed to buy only enough food for herself and her dog, and she had bought only a few clothes since she had arrived. Her needs were easy to meet.

Why then, she wondered, did she feel so restless? To be sure, she wasn't working, but that could change quickly enough. She had made a few acquaintances amongst her neighbors, and was studiously avoiding the attentions of a young man who wouldn't take no for an answer.

Rose pulled her hair out of her eyes and tied it back with a ribbon. She hadn't returned to Santa Monica since she had visited in October. Much as she had enjoyed it, there had been something missing, something she couldn't quite define. She had watched groups of friends and families enjoying the pier, and a part of her had wished that she could be a part of that, but she couldn't. She couldn't join in the friendship and laughter, and she had no family. Robert flashed briefly through her mind. He would have liked this place, she thought. They would have enjoyed the rides and amusements on the pier, and visited the beach. After a while, perhaps, they would have had a child to bring along with them and introduce to all the joys they had experienced.

She shook her head, pushing the thoughts away. It didn't do any good to wish for what she couldn't have. Robert was gone, and she could only hope that he was watching over her. Maybe someday she would find someone else to love, but not now. Not yet. She had to make her peace with Robert's loss before she could open her heart again.

Rose shivered, wrapping her arms more tightly around her knees. She hated the cold, even though it was much warmer than the deep, biting chills she had experienced before. A cold, overcast day in Southern California was still infinitely warmer than a tundral winter—or an April night in the North Atlantic.

She looked out over the ocean again, not really seeing it. She had been in Southern California for months, and had visited the beach often, but she had never been able to bring herself to go into the ocean. The closest she had gotten was when she rode the horse in the surf. The Pacific Ocean was warm enough, she supposed, but the endlessness of it and the crashing waves made her apprehensive. It would be easy to vanish into the ocean, never to be seen again.

Rose sat up as Tripper loped up to her, a strand of seaweed hanging from his tail. She got to her feet as he shook himself enthusiastically, spraying her with water. He wagged his tail, dropping a dead fish at her feet.

Shaking her head, she picked up the fish and flung it back out into the surf before her pet could eat it. From the smell, the fish had probably been dead for a while, and she didn't want the dog poisoning himself.

Another gust of wind whipped her skirt about as she turned back toward the city, flinging sand against her legs and chilling her to the bone. Hooking the leash back on Tripper, Rose started back toward home.

She wasn't content here, she realized, as she walked along the streets of Los Angeles. She had always wanted to see Los Angeles, and Santa Monica, and work as an actress, but now that she had done those things she was restless, and wanted to move on. But where would she go?

She could go back to San Francisco, she realized. Deborah would welcome her, and she could resume acting at one of the theaters if she chose. Or, she thought, she could return to New Orleans, and find her uncle. But neither of those choices really appealed to her.

She wanted to go someplace warm, she realized, which eliminated San Francisco, which was cold and damp in the winter. New Orleans was warm, most of the time, at least, but she couldn't really bring herself to return there. The city held too many memories of the time she had spent there with Robert, and she wasn't ready to see it again.

She could go south, she thought, down to San Diego, or east to the desert. It might not be much warmer than Los Angeles, but it was someplace new.

Entering her apartment, Rose looked around, feeling as though the walls were closing in around her. The restlessness was more pronounced now, and she realized that she really didn't have anything to keep her where she was. She didn't understand the restlessness—she had wandered so far already—but it was there, nonetheless, pushing at her, telling her that she needed to move on and find whatever it was she was unconsciously searching for. Maybe she wasn't looking for anything, she thought. Maybe she just needed to keep moving, to stay ahead of whatever sorrows might be following in her wake.

Removing the dog's leash, she looked around the small apartment. She didn't have many possessions, and it wouldn't take her long to pack up what she did have. There was no reason for her to leave, but there was really no reason for her to stay, either, and she felt driven to move on.

Impulsively, Rose walked into her tiny bedroom and pulled her suitcase from beneath her bed. Moving quickly, she removed the clothes from her closet, packing them into the bag. Striding around the apartment, feeling ever more closed in, she packed up her few remaining possessions and hooked the leash on the dog again.

Picking up her suitcase, Rose went to the door, hurrying outside, not stopping to say good-bye to anyone for fear that they would talk her out of leaving. She needed to leave, even if she had no idea where she was going or why she was going there.

Writing a quick note to her landlord, Rose slipped the key into his mailbox and set off toward the train station. Few people were on the streets as the rain began to fall more heavily, and she almost ran through the streets, arriving at the train station in record time.

An hour later, Rose was aboard another train, headed toward San Diego.


	60. The Stranger 6

Chapter Sixty

December 15, 1915

Rose strode down the rutted dirt road, Tripper trotting along in front of her. It had been over a month since she had left Los Angeles behind, traveling first to San Diego, and then exchanging her suitcase for a rucksack and heading east on foot after two weeks.

She had been on the road ever since. She had no particular destination in mind; instead, she wandered wherever the road seemed inclined to take her. People looked at her oddly when she passed through towns and by ranches and farms, wondering what a young woman was doing alone on the road with only a large dog for protection. Rose didn't worry—not often, anyway. She had traveled alone, on foot, from the Alaskan tundra to the coastal town of Juneau only months earlier, and the back roads of Southern California were child's play compared to that.

It had been warmer in San Diego than in Los Angeles when she had arrived. San Diego was much farther south, a subtropical coastal city. It wasn't a large city, but it was a pleasant one, and Rose might have been inclined to stay if she hadn't been so restless. But after two weeks, she had realized that she didn't want to stay in San Diego, either. Loading her belongings onto her back, she had set out to the northeast, heading into the often warm and dry inland valleys of Southern California.

It had only rained twice since she had set out. The first time, she had waited out the storm in the shelter of some overhanging rocks, shivering against the chill autumn night. The second rainstorm had been three days earlier, and she had been near a small farm when it had hit. She had convinced the suspicious family living there to let her stay with them while the rain fell, rewarding them for their hospitality by fixing a leak in the roof after the rain had ended. After that, she had headed on down the road.

After the last rainstorm, the weather had turned suddenly cold. When Rose awoke in the mornings, wrapped in her bedroll with Tripper curled up at her side, the brush and grass sparkled with frost, and the standing puddles of water had thin sheens of ice on them. The ice melted quickly once the sun rose, but the temperatures remained cool.

In spite of the cool weather, the sun was bright and shining, the sky a rich, deep shade of blue. Rose hitched her pack higher on her back as looked into the distance, spying a small ranch house set some distance back from the road. This was cattle country, and she had walked past great herds of them, belonging to the various ranches in the area. Some were fenced in by barbed wire, while others roamed freely, to be rounded up in the spring.

Rose turned off the road and headed toward the house, looking around to see if she could find a well or spring. She needed more water, and would have preferred to get it herself rather than disturb the occupants of the house, but she didn't see the water source.

Rose approached the house cautiously, knowing how some people reacted to strangers. A fat dog growled at her, then decided that she wasn't worth the effort, and rolled over and went back to sleep. Tripper ran over to investigate, but the fat dog simply slunk off the porch and crawled under it, growling and showing his teeth to Tripper whenever the mutt approached.

Knocking on the door, Rose leaned casually against the wall, wondering if anyone was home. The house wasn't well kept up, and she would have thought it abandoned were it not for the presence of the dog and the sight of strings of chilies hanging from the porch rafters.

At last, the door opened, and an impossibly tiny old woman looked up at her. "Can I help you?" she asked, her English thickly accented.

"Could I possibly get some water here?" Rose asked, trying to enunciate carefully as the woman put her hand behind her ear, indicating that Rose should speak up.

"Water? Of course. This way." She led Rose around the back of the house, her step amazingly spry for one so old.

There was a well with a slightly rusted water pump behind the building. Thanking the woman, Rose took out her canteens and began to fill them.

"We don't get many travelers out this way," the woman spoke to Rose. "What might you be doing out here?"

Rose shrugged. "Just...traveling, seeing what's out here."

The woman looked at her sardonically. "Are you planning on taking up ranching? Because cattle are about all you'll find out here."

"This land is beautiful—all the mountains around it, the wide valleys, the warmth and sunlight. Still," Rose added, "I think I'm just passing through."

"Well, do you want some lunch while you're here? I don't get many visitors, and certainly not many with good manners."

Rose smiled. She had met a few of the less well-mannered individuals in her weeks on the road, including one man who assumed that her presence on the road, alone, made her an easy target. He was quickly disavowed of the notion when Rose fought back, nearly braining him with a jagged chunk of granite, and he had fled even more quickly when Tripper had materialized out of the brush and lunged at him. He had run off, back toward town, holding his aching head and mumbling to himself about ungrateful women and rabid coyotes.

"Sure. Lunch sounds good," Rose told the woman. "By the way, I'm Rose Calvert."

"I'm Esther Henke."

Rose set the table as Esther served ham sandwiches, _frijoles_, beer, and dried elderberry pie—a grand mixture of Mexican and American cuisine.

Rose was reluctant to say too much about herself, but Esther was not at all shy about talking about her ranch, her late husband, her three daughters, and her grown grandson, who had been living with her until he had gotten it into his head that he wanted to go down to Mexico and be a Villista.

"I don't see why it is he had to abandon his old grandmother and join those rebels down in Mexico," she told Rose. "His whole family is here, and he's set to inherit this land when I die. Why, when I married his Americano grandfather, he was able to keep my family's land intact, instead of it being broken up and sold off like the lands of so many Californios. He's got an American father, too, and he'll own all this when I'm gone—if the young fool lives to inherit it."

"Why is he in Mexico? Shouldn't his loyalties be American?"

"His hot-headed friends from Mexico, whose families came here to get away from the revolution, talked him into going down there and risking his life. They think they're going to change the whole corrupt system." She snorted indelicately. "More likely, they'll get themselves killed or thrown into prison. Besides, all revolution does is give the oppressed a chance to oppress someone else. I'm eighty-five years old, and I've seen this happen over and over. Mexicans, Americans, Indians—whoever they claim to be—a pack of fools, the lot of them." She took a swig of beer. Rose stared at her. "What's the matter? You've never seen an old woman drink like a man? I have to do something to amuse myself out here. I smoke, too."

Rose smiled, liking Esther better and better. She took a swig of beer herself, making the old woman laugh appreciatively.

"Do you smoke, too?"

"Not anymore," Rose told her, looking a bit sheepish.

"Smart girl. It's a nasty habit—but at my age, I don't need to worry about what anyone thinks anymore. I just do what I want, and damn the consequences."

Rose laughed, getting up from her chair to clear away the dishes. Esther stopped her.

"You don't need to do that."

"Of course I do. You were kind enough to give me water and lunch, so the least I can do is wash the dishes."

Esther sat back, not protesting too hard, as Rose cleared the table and scraped the remains of their meal into a garbage bucket.

"Just throw that outside," Esther told her. "Señorito will eat it."

"Señorito?" Then Rose realized she was talking about the fat dog. Little Man, indeed, she thought. The dog could probably cause a small tidal wave if he ever wagged his tail near the ocean.

She took the bucket out front, tossing the contents to the dog. When Tripper rushed forward to steal the food, Señorito crawled out from under the porch and chomped down on the malamute mix's ear, sending Tripper running to Rose, whimpering.

Rose let him lick out the bucket, then checked his ear. He wasn't badly injured. The other dog's bite hadn't even broken the skin. Patting him on the head, she went back inside.

As she washed the dishes and set them aside to drain, Rose looked out the grimy kitchen window. There was a wide view, as far as the eye could see, of winter-brown brush and grass, but that wasn't what held her attention. What had caught her eye was a dilapidated shed with the wide doors half-open, revealing what appeared to be the tail end of an airplane.

"What is that?" Rose asked Esther, pointing to the shed.

"It's nothing," Esther told her quickly. "Just an old shed."

"Not the shed. What's inside it? It looks like an airplane."

"It is an airplane, but it doesn't work. It hasn't worked since my grandson landed it too quickly last year, breaking one of the wings and twisting the landing gear out of shape. It's a miracle he didn't kill himself."

"Could it be fixed?" Rose wanted to know.

Esther could see where this was going. "Oh, no. You're not going to try fixing it. That's my grandson's job, if he ever comes back."

"Wouldn't he like it if he came back and found it as good as new?"

"Do you know how to fix a plane?" Esther challenged her.

"No," Rose admitted, "but I can learn." After all, she thought, she had helped to build a sturdy sod house on the Alaskan tundra, with no knowledge of what she was doing. It had been an engineering feat in itself, so how much more difficult could it be to put a damaged airplane back into working condition?

"Do you know anything about airplanes?" she asked Esther, her mind already going over the problem.

Esther didn't answer, but Rose could see by her expression that she did know.

"You could show me," she told Esther. "You know. I know you do."

"Do you read minds?" Esther snapped. Then she relented. "You're right. I helped him build it in the first place."

"Then help me put it back together. I'm sure your grandson would appreciate it."

"You don't want to help my grandson. You just want to work on that airplane."

Rose looked at her sheepishly. The old woman had read her motivations clearly.

"All right," Esther told Rose. "I will show you how to put it back together. God knows, someone has to do it before it rusts away to nothing. But," she added, "there's something I need for you do in return."

"What is it?"

"I need you to help me fix this place up. I can't keep up with it myself anymore, but someone as young and strong as you could put the place to rights in no time. If you will help me repair this place, I will teach you how to mend that airplane. I'll even teach you to fly it, if you want," she added, her eyes twinkling impishly.

Rose's eyes lit up. She didn't mind hard work, and helping to fix the dilapidated buildings and grounds would be a fair exchange for such an opportunity.

"You have a deal," she told Esther, reaching out to shake her hand.


	61. The Stranger 7

Chapter Sixty-One

Rose kept her end of the bargain, fixing up Esther's dilapidated house. She started on the roof, which leaked badly whenever it rained, tearing out rotten sections and replacing them with new wood and tiles. She had never taken on such an extensive repair job before, but her natural creativity and problem-solving ability enabled her to figure out how to fix things.

When she was nearly done with the repair job, Rose inadvertently found the most rotten part of the roof. With a loud cracking noise, she fell through it, landing on Esther's bed below and bringing rotten bits of wood, dust, and bird nests down with her. She was fortunate to have such a soft landing, but she still succeeded in spraining her ankle, catching it on a stronger piece of roof as she fell and twisting it badly.

Esther moved into the small room that Rose occupied until the roof could be repaired. It was a couple of weeks before Rose could climb up on the roof again, and she gave Esther the cot she had been sleeping on, moving to a pallet on the floor herself.

While they waited for Rose's ankle to heal, Esther showed her the broken airplane, pointing out where the wing had been torn off, and how the wheels on the plane had been twisted into a mass of broken metal.

Rose looked the problems over carefully, her mind already going over ways to fix the plane, but she had to fulfill her end of the bargain before Esther would teach her how to repair the broken machine. As soon as her ankle was healed enough, Rose was back on the roof, mending the collapsed section, taking care not to fall through again.

One she had finished repairing the roof, she drove the wagon into town, bringing back glass to fill the broken windows, and fresh paint for the walls, which were still in good condition. By March, she had the house looking almost as good as new. To finish it off, she gave it a thorough cleaning, one that Esther remarked it hadn't seen in years.

With the warming weather, Rose started in on the yard, bringing a neighbor's sheep in to clear out the weeds, then pruning back the perennial shrubs and trees, removing those that had died and chopping them up for firewood. Under Esther's supervision, she planted new shrubs and trees, native plants dug up and transplanted from the surrounding valley and hills, and planted flowers and vegetables. In all of her years in the upper class, in all of her years spent traveling from place to place, Rose had never planted a garden before, and Esther had a great deal to teach her—how to dig up the soil and dig in rotted cow manure for fertilizer, how to plant the seeds and irrigate, and which plants would survive in the heat of a Southern California summer. When Rose brought out the seeds that Esther had taken from the previous year's garden and put away, she learned that such things as lettuce, spinach, and peas would not do well in the heat, and needed to be planted in the fall, while crops such as chilies, tomatoes, melons, corn, beans, and squash would thrive in the summer. Starting a garden was hard work, but Rose found it amazingly satisfying, planting seeds in the ground and watching the plants come up and grow and bear fruit. She planted flowers around the porch, building a trellis for the vines to climb.

When she had time, Rose walked into the surrounding hills, bringing back samples of plants that she had found. The year that she had spent in Alaska had left her with a deep and abiding interest in the natural world around her, and she often pestered Esther to tell her what the different plants were, and what uses they had. Before long, Rose took up one of her old habits from Alaska—gathering wild vegetables and berries for the table. Esther looked at some of the foods she brought back skeptically, but was willing to try them. Rose had already learned never to eat anything she couldn't positively identify, and never poisoned either of them.

While wandering across the wide ranch lands, Rose met some of the ranch hands. Most were polite, having seen her on their occasional trips to the house, and her aloofness put off those who might have had other ideas. Many talked to her when they met, but her aloofness and reticence, even to those who were friendly toward her, soon caused them to nickname her Stranger. She didn't mind. She had felt like a stranger in a strange land for a long time, even when she grew accustomed to her surroundings. For a long time, since Robert's death, Rose had felt as though she didn't really belong anywhere, and all the time she had spent traveling, trying new things, had been a part of that. She had lived in many places, but was at home in none of them.

When the work of fixing up the house and yard were finally completed, Esther showed her how to repair the plane. The broken wing was in several pieces, and Rose had to travel all the way to San Diego to get the parts to mend it, but she was determined to put the airplane back into working condition, and to learn how to fly it. She spent hours making the repairs, often arising at dawn and becoming so involved in her work that she didn't stop until sunset. The landing gear, she found, was irreparable, and after another trip to San Diego, to get more parts, she completely rebuilt it. Esther watched over every repair that she made, pointing out that the difference between repairing a house and repairing a plane was that the house was not likely to crash, while an improperly built airplane might well do so, and a plane crash was likely to have much worse consequences than a simple sprained ankle.

It took months to completely repair the airplane, but Rose enjoyed the work, looking forward to the day when she would learn to fly, and by July of 1916, the plane was back in working order.


	62. The Stranger 8

Chapter Sixty-Two

It was September before Esther was satisfied that Rose was ready to fly. She drilled Rose over and over in the use of the different controls, explaining repeatedly how they were used, trying to beat into Rose's mind the importance of safety, and of always paying attention when flying. Rose listened, hearing Esther repeat the same lessons until she was ready to scream. She knew that the old woman was only concerned with her safety, but she had always been a fast learner, and repeating the same lessons over and over annoyed her.

Still, she was learning. She sat in the pilot's seat, learning the controls, learning how to work them, long before she was ever allowed to fly. Esther gave her a proper cap and goggles to wear, and finally, early in September, Rose flew for the first time.

Esther was with her, sitting in the front seat of the two-seater plane. The controls were in the back seat, and Rose sat there, going over the controls, making sure everything was working, before she took off.

Her first flight was short. Esther clutched her seat until her knuckles turned white as the plane jerked and dipped in the air. After about ten minutes, she had Rose circle around and land, coming down a bit roughly. Nothing was damaged, however, and Rose was thrilled with her first flight.

In the weeks that followed, they went out often, and Rose's ability to control the plane improved greatly. She loved the feeling of soaring above the earth, looking down on the valleys and hills. Late in September, she made her first flight to San Diego, attracting a crowd when she landed. Airplanes were still uncommon in the Southern California city, and the sight of a woman flying was even more surprising. Rose and Esther were featured in the local newspapers, and a photograph was taken of Rose standing alone beside the plane. She managed to get a copy of the picture, and placed it carefully with the picture of herself on the beach in Santa Monica, taken almost a year earlier.

Early in October, Rose made her first flight to the mountains, and then over them to the desert. She looked down at the changing landscape, amazed at how far one could travel by air in a single day, and how much a person could see from so far above the ground. She landed near the Salton Sea, getting her first close look at the desert, before heading back west.

It was in the middle of October that Rose was finally allowed to fly alone. Esther felt, after six weeks of flying with Rose, that her young student knew what she was doing, and no longer needed her supervision.

Rose took the plane out alone, reveling in the solitude so far above the ground. The countryside spread out before her, the hills and valleys appearing tiny from so high up. Below her, tiny houses and outbuildings spread out, and cattle in the fields appeared as dots. From this altitude, she imagined that she could see forever. Small towns were visible from miles away, and in the clear, not yet smoggy air, she could see down into Mexico to the south, and to the Pacific Ocean to the west.

The thrill of freedom filled her, and she laughed joyously as the wind roared around the plane. She remembered another moment, more than four years earlier, when she had "flown" on the Titanic, the wind in her hair and Jack's arms around her.

"I'm flying, Jack! I'm flying!" she called, her voice inaudible above the rush of the wind. "Just like we did on Titanic. I'm free, and I've learned to fly."

She banked the plane downward, looking at the autumn-browned landscape below, before moving upward again, passing through a low bank of clouds and emerging above them, the sunlight gleaming on the plane.

Slowly circling around, she headed back toward the ranch. As she passed the cloud bank, and the sun shone over the land below, she sang as she had that night so long ago.

_Come Josephine in my flying machine  
And it's up she goes  
Up she goes  
Balance yourself life a bird on a beam  
In the air she goes  
There she goes  
Up, up, a little bit higher  
Oh, my, the moon is on fire  
Come Josephine in my flying machine  
Going up, all on, good-bye._

Rose looked down at the earth below, wiping away an unexpected tear. She had long since said her good-byes to Jack, but sometimes something would bring back the memories, and the sorrow that had never completely faded.

She could fly, Rose thought as the ranch came into view, and she had found a home, but in many ways she was still alone, still separate from all those around her. The freedom she had found was wonderful, but a part of her longed to be a part of those around her, and she would have given up some of her freedom to fulfill that very basic human need to belong.

But she hadn't really belonged anywhere in a long time, and much as she loved flying, and living with Esther, she knew that it would only be a matter of time before she moved on again, always a stranger.


	63. The Stranger 9

Chapter Sixty-Three

January, 1917

Life went along smoothly for several months. Rose knew that one day she would move on, but for the time being, she pushed this desire aside and stayed with Esther, whose health was gradually deteriorating. Neither of them knew how serious it really was, however, until well into December. Esther had slowly been losing strength and energy for a long time, but Rose had attributed it to old age—after all, Esther was eighty-six years old—and had simply taken over Esther's work for her, to allow the older woman to rest. But by January, Esther began to complain of ever-increasing pain, and Rose realized that something more than old age was the matter.

Early one morning, after she had prepared breakfast for Esther and cared for the chickens, cow, and horses, she took the wagon and made her way into town to fetch the doctor. Fortunately, he had only one patient waiting ahead of her, and she didn't have to wait long before he accompanied her back to the ranch.

Esther was still lying in bed when they arrived. She hadn't touched the breakfast that Rose had fixed, and the dogs lay at the foot of the bed, their eyes mournful. They ran to greet them, barking wildly at the doctor when they arrived, but quickly returned to guarding the old woman.

Rose stood in the hallway, waiting anxiously, as the doctor examined Esther. Esther had, in many ways, become a grandmother to Rose, and she would miss her if anything happened. She knew well that doctors couldn't always cure everything, and Esther had been growing progressively weaker for a long time. She had good days and bad, but overall things had been slowly deteriorating.

The doctor finally emerged from the room, closing the door quietly behind him. "Mrs. Calvert?"

Rose turned, startled. She hadn't heard him come into the hall. "Yes?"

The doctor's face was grim. "It's cancer. A very advanced case. I doubt she'll live more than a week or two more."

"Isn't there anything you can do?"

He shook his head. "Aside from giving her painkillers and making her comfortable, no. Had you gotten me sooner, surgery might have been a possibility, though at her age, it could have done more harm than good." He handed Rose a brown bottle of medicine.

"What's this?"

"Morphine. It will help ease the pain. Give it to her as needed, following the instructions on the bottle. Don't give her too much; high doses can be fatal, especially in one not used to them."

Rose nodded slowly. "All right. Is there anything I can do for her?"

"Just keep her comfortable. There's no medicine that can cure a case of cancer like this, but you can keep her from suffering too much." He turned to leave, then turned back to Rose. "By the way, she wanted to speak to you."

Rose nodded sadly. "Thank you, Doctor. Do you need a ride back into town?"

"No, I can walk. You'd best see to her." He walked away. Rose stood quietly until she heard the door open and close.

Bracing herself, she walked into Esther's room. "Esther?"

"Rose." The old woman struggled to sit up.

Rose hurried to help her, trying to hide the tears that streaked her face. Esther wasn't fooled, though.

"Rose, don't cry for me. I've had a good, long life. I'm eighty-six years old, and I'll be back with my husband before long." She sighed. "He's been gone for twenty years, but nothing is forever. He promised we'd see each other again, and I'm finally going to join him."

"No, Esther. You'll be all right."

"No, I won't, Rose. I've known that something was wrong for a long time, but I didn't bother you about it until it became too painful to bear. There was nothing that could have been done, anyway."

"Maybe something would have worked."

Esther shook her head. "No, I don't think so. My mother died the same way, and so did my sister, thirty years ago. It's finally come for me, too."

"Do...do you want some morphine?" Rose asked, reaching for the bottle she had set on a shelf.

"No, not yet. I want to speak with you first."

Rose nodded, sitting down beside Esther's bed.

"There's a few things I need you to do. I need you to go to the Catholic church in town and bring the priest for last rites. I've never been very religious, but I might as well set things to right with God before I go."

"I will." Rose nodded her head, her eyes still streaming.

"In addition, I need you to fly down to Mexico and find my grandson. His name is William Murphy, but he was known here as Will, and his friends in Mexico call him Guillermo. That's his picture." She pointed to a small, framed photograph on the shelf. "Take it with you, to help find him. You don't knew enough Spanish to talk much, but some people there do speak English, and Will certainly does. You know enough to ask after him. The last place I heard from him from was Tijuana, just south of San Diego, on the Mexican side of the border. Start there. I haven't heard from him in three months now, so there's no telling where he's gotten to now. If you can find him, bring him back. He's the heir for all of this, except for the plane, the horses, and the small shack out on the edge of the property that you like so much. I've willed those to you. You'll always have a home if you need one."

Rose was touched by the old woman's willingness to leave something to her, though she had only known her for a year. In many ways, Esther had taken a mother's place in Rose's heart, and Rose had tried to give that back to her all the time she had been there. Still weeping, she nodded her head.

"I'll do it, Esther. I'll find him and bring him back, kicking and screaming if I have to."

Esther managed a small laugh. "That may just be necessary. A Villista, indeed! But he's dedicated to his cause, even if he is putting himself in danger."

She settled back, worn out by the exertion. Rose took the bottle from the shelf and read the instructions, taking out a single pill for Esther to take. After crushing it to make it easier to swallow, she gave it to her patient, then waited beside her until the powerful narcotic had sent her into a drugged sleep.

The next morning, Rose set off for Mexico. She had driven back into town the afternoon before to fetch the priest, who had promised to keep an eye on Esther while Rose was gone. In addition, she had found one of Esther's daughters still living in the area, and had brought her to help care for her mother.

Esther was in good hands by the time Rose fueled the plane, checked it over, and set out, carrying with her the supplies she would need for her search. She left Tripper behind, much to the dog's disappointment. She had often taken him flying with her before, tying him down in the seat so that he couldn't try to jump out. He had watched with sad eyes as the plane had risen into the sky, circling around before heading southwest in the direction of Tijuana.

She arrived there by that afternoon, but there was no sign of Will, despite extensive searching. Many people spoke English this close to the border, so she had a fairly easy time of her search, but all she found was that he and his friends had headed to the southeast two months earlier.

The next day, Rose headed southeast, flying farther into Mexico. She stopped at every small town and outlying ranch or farm that she came across, but no one could tell her where Will was.

Communication was difficult, because Rose's command of Spanish was far from perfect, and the farther from the border she got, the less English she found. Translators were not always available, and she spent a great deal of time trying to communicate through what little Spanish she did know, along with gestures and the picture of Will. Several people had seen him, but he had always moved on before she got there.

Another problem that Rose encountered was finding enough fuel for the airplane. It was sometimes available in the larger towns, but she tried to stock up when she could, carrying as much as possible with her. A couple of times, she had walk to the nearest town, trying to find fuel and someone to help her transport it, delaying her search for Esther's erstwhile grandson.

Finally, late in January, she found him. She doubted that Esther was still alive—the doctor hadn't thought that she had much time left, and it had been weeks since Rose had left to find Will—but she still honored the old woman's wishes, and sought out her missing grandson.

She found him in a _cantina_ in a small, dusty town. Even with her limited Spanish, Rose could still sense the tension that pervaded the small town. The revolution had taken a toll on the people, and those who did not support Pancho Villa had been driven out or silenced. The events of the revolution had done harm to the people of the town, loathe as many were to admit it, and Rose couldn't help but think of Esther's assessment of revolution as an opportunity for the oppressees to become the oppressors.

People stared when she walked into the _cantina_. The owner of the small boarding house down the street had told her in broken English where he could be found, and Rose had immediately headed for the _cantina_, ignoring the fact that few women frequented it, and those that did were anything but respectable. She had grown used to being stared at, especially with her airplane, her men's clothing, and the fact that she was a woman alone. People in the smaller towns had often regarded her suspiciously, for she was a stranger in a land torn by violence.

She recognized him at once from the picture Esther had given her. Ignoring the stares of the occupants of the _cantina_, she walked up to him.

"Will?"

_"Yo soy Guillermo,"_ he told her, as his friends snickered.

"Speak English," Rose told him, a note of impatience in her voice. "Your grandmother would take a whip to you if she could see you now."

Will stared at her. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Rose Calvert. I've been living with your grandmother, Esther Henke, for over a year."

"So what are you doing here?"

"Looking for you." She looked around the _cantina_. "So, this is how you fight a revolution, is it?" She looked at Will and his half-drunken friends, sitting around a scarred table with half-empty containers of beer and tequila scattered across it.

"Why were you looking for me?" He gave her a lascivious look.

"Not for that," she told him, crossing her arms over her chest. "May I speak to you alone for a moment?"

One of Will's friends hooted with laughter when he translated her words, whistling appreciatively. Rose ignored him. She had encountered rude, ill-mannered men on both sides of the border, particularly young men who had had too much to drink and were surrounded by their friends. They didn't disturb her. She had long since learned that ignoring them was usually the quickest way to discourage them.

"Why?" he asked her, taking a gulp of tequila and almost choking on it. His friends pounded him on the back and took the bottle from him, passing it around. Rose looked at them in disgust.

"I have a message from your grandmother."

"Tell her to write me a letter."

Rose set her jaw in irritation. "You move around too much to receive a letter. Besides that, she's dying, or may already be dead."

That got his attention. Picking up his beer, he gestured for her to follow him to a corner table.

"What happened?" he asked, his demeanor much more serious than it had been a few moments earlier.

"She has cancer. The doctor figured she only had a week or two to live. It's been almost three weeks since I left California to find you."

"You followed me this far in three weeks? How?"

"I flew your plane, which, by the way, is mine now. Your grandmother gave it to me."

"She had no right to do that."

"You're the one who ran off to Mexico and left her to fend for herself."

"I don't know who you are, or how you talked her into giving you _my_ plane, but—"

"The reasons aren't important now. There'll be plenty of time to talk about them later, when we get back to California."

"I'm not going back to California."

"The hell you aren't. I promised your grandmother that I would bring you back, kicking and screaming if necessary, and I will."

"I'd like to see you try." He looked over Rose's smaller figure insultingly. "I'm needed here, for the revolution."

"You're needed here to drink with your friends."

He looked at her angrily. "You have no idea what's going on."

"I have a fair idea—I've been in Mexico for almost three weeks, looking for you. Your grandmother also told me about you and your friends, and your idea of freeing Mexico from tyranny."

"And we're succeeding."

"Revolution is only an opportunity for the oppressees to become the oppressors."

"You've been listening to her talk, haven't you?" He laughed bitterly. "It's about time the oppressors got a taste of their own medicine."

"You're an American. You don't owe any loyalties to Mexico."

"I've been fighting in this revolution, and I'm seeing it through to the end."

"Or until you get killed or thrown in jail. Look, just come back for a while, long enough to settle your grandmother's estate and arrange for it to be kept up while you're gone. Then you'll have a place to come back to when the revolution is over."

"I might stay in Mexico."

"Or you might come home and accept your inheritance. You might even be able to help more with the money you could make from the ranch."

He considered this for a minute, his alcohol-befuddled brain slowly going over her words. "I'm going back when things are settled."

"That's fine." Rose narrowed her eyes as he looked her over again. "I am not a part of your inheritance. You get the land and the animals and the money. I get the plane, the horses, and a shack on the edge of the property."

"You really brainwashed her, didn't you?"

"There was no 'brainwashing' involved. Your grandmother is a sweet woman who wants you to come home and take your place in the family, accept your inheritance and forget about this revolution."

"I'm not abandoning the cause."

"I understand that, but will you at least accompany me back to California? If we're lucky, she'll still be alive to say good-bye to you."

He sighed, taking another swig of beer. "All right. But only for a short time."

"Good. Tell your friends when you will be back and where to meet you, and then we can go."

"I'll go with you tomorrow."

"She may already be dead."

"Then one more day won't make a difference."

Rose shook her head, her mouth twisting in contempt. She held her tongue, though, knowing that she had barely convinced him as it was. It would be easy for him to change his mind.

"Fine. I will meet you tomorrow morning at sunrise outside of town. I left the plane in a field on the western side. Meet me there."

She got up to leave, her eyes warning him of the consequences if he did not meet her, and walked out the door, ignoring the stares and catcalls.

At dawn the next morning, Will met Rose near the plane. Rose had spent the night in the field, not wanting any curious individuals to tamper with the plane. Will was quiet, in a much more agreeable mood, as she checked the plane over and added fuel. He held his head in his hands, and Rose suspected that he had a hangover, but he was much more pleasant without his liquor and drinking companions. He approached her politely, and apologized for making her wait an extra night, when they could have been halfway back to the United States by now. Rose accepted his apologies, though she was still reserved.

They headed northwest over the desert, away from the glaring light of the rising sun. It was a cold but bright morning as they set out, heading in the direction of the United States.

Much of the land was unfamiliar to Rose, once she got out of the area she had been traveling in, and she brought the plane lower, looking more closely at the landscape to be sure she was going the right way. The position of the sun helped, but by noon it was hard to tell which way was north, and the compass she had brought with her was broken, spinning around and around no matter where she was pointed. She supposed she should have tried to find another compass, but she was in a hurry to get back to the United States, and the sun pointed her in the right direction most of the time.

It was just as the sun had passed its apex that she flew over a low copse of trees surrounding a small spring; one of the scattered desert water holes so important to the wildlife. She looked down, considering whether to find an open place to land and stop for a while, when a shot rang out from the trees.

Startled, Rose pulled the plane higher up, trying to get away from the watering hole, but before she gained more than twenty feet in altitude, another shot rang out, this one striking the plane's engine. There was a crackling sound, and then the plane began to plummet toward the ground.

Rose tried to control the descent, trying to use the air currents to bring them down safely, but the plane was too close to the ground. Another shot sounded, the bullet narrowly missing her. Startled, Rose jerked back, her hands flying from the controls, and the plane spiraled downward, hitting the ground with a jolt before bouncing up again, finally crashing into a pile of large boulders and ripping apart.


	64. The Stranger 10

Chapter Sixty-Four

Rose sat up slowly as the world came back into view. Blinking to clear her vision, she touched her aching head gingerly, assuring herself that she was still alive.

_What happened?_ she wondered, trying to recall the events of the past fifteen minutes. _Someone shot at us, and the plane went down...yes, that's right. I'm still alive...I think._

Pulling off her cap and goggles, she touched the lump just above her hairline. It was bleeding profusely from a shallow but wide cut. The vision in her right eye was blurred and red. _Have I injured my eye?_ she wondered.__

_No,_ she decided, touching her eyelid carefully. It wasn't injured. The redness and blurring came from the blood running from the cut on her head. With the edge of her sleeve, she wiped the blood from her eye, and then looked around.

The plane was in ruins, one wing torn off and lying about sixty feet away, the body of the plane crushed against the rocks they had crashed into. Only a thicket of catclaw bushes had softened the landing enough to save her life.

Cautiously, Rose pushed some of the debris away and climbed out of the plane, noticing that it was twisted into a mass of metal and wood only feet from where she had been sitting. She was lucky to be alive.

As she climbed out of the ruined cockpit, her head spun dizzily for a moment, and she clutched the plane for support. Regaining her equilibrium, she moved forward carefully, ignoring the thorns on the catclaw bushes that ripped at her hair and clothing.

The front of the plane was crushed, flattened against one of the boulders. A smaller boulder had been dislodged in the crash, and it lay atop the very front of the plane, a third of it buried in the wreckage.

At first, Rose saw no sign of Will. The twisted mass of metal and wood partially hid the spot where he had been sitting, and that part of the plane had twisted to the side, smashing the passenger seat against the boulder.

With a sinking feeling, Rose grabbed the mass of wreckage, trying to pull it away. "Will?" she called softly. "Guillermo?"

There was no response. When the wreckage refused to move, she hoisted herself up, avoiding the sharp pieces of metal that threatened to tear into her hands.

The twisted mass groaned in protest as she pulled herself atop it. Leaning against the boulder, she carefully moved to look into the remains of the passenger seat.

Will was there, his body as twisted and broken as the airplane. Blood soaked the inside of the passenger seat, and was spattered across the lower part of the boulder. Swallowing hard, Rose looked closer, wondering if there was any chance that he was still alive.

There wasn't, she saw, as she stared at the broken body of Esther's grandson. His eyes were wide and staring, what remained of his face frozen in a permanent expression of shock. She hadn't seen anyone look that way since the Titanic had sunk, the frozen look of horror on the face as the person realized that they were going to die, and nothing could save them. What he had thought of, in those last few seconds of his life, she could only imagine.

It was a miracle that she had survived, the part of the plane that she was in crashing into the much softer catclaw bushes, slowed down just enough that when it hit the rock, it had remained intact, along with its occupant.

Climbing down from the wreckage, Rose worked her way out of the thorny shrubs, taking stock of her situation. Will was dead, and the plane was completely destroyed, in an unfamiliar section of the vast Mexican desert. She wasn't sure how far from the United States she was, or even how far from the nearest town, farm, or ranch. Settlements were few and far between in the desert.

Crouching down in the shade of the brush, Rose tore a piece of her shirt free and held it against the cut on her head until the bleeding stopped. She didn't seem to be too badly injured, but she was miles from any source of help, afoot in the desert. The few supplies she had carried in the plane had been destroyed in the crash. She had no food or water, nor any way of carrying any if she found it.

As the gravity of the situation settled over her, she put her head in her hands, trying not to panic. She had been in bad situations before, and had survived. She had lived alone for months on the Arctic tundra, had wandered along the roads of Southern California for weeks before settling down to help Esther, had flown over a good-sized portion of Mexico searching for Will. She wasn't a tenderfoot with no knowledge of how to survive in the wilderness, and she had never been one to give up.

She had failed Esther, Rose realized a moment later. She had promised to bring her grandson back, and instead she had crashed the plane, killing him. It would have been far better if she had never found him, for then at least it would have been possible that he would have survived, and eventually returned to California, though the chances of Esther's living to see him were slim.

Rose had thought of all sorts of things that might happen—running out fuel, engine failure, getting lost, even being thrown out of Mexico. But it had never occurred to her that the plane might be shot down. That was something that happened over in Europe, where the war was raging. It wasn't supposed to happen in the Mexican desert.

On reflection, Rose realized that she should have thought of the possibility. A war was going on in Mexico, albeit a much smaller one. A revolution could be equally violent with an international war, even if it was on a smaller scale, and someone might well have thought of the plane as belonging to an enemy.

It was this thought that brought her to her feet, ready to flee. Whoever had shot them down might still be around. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious after the crash—it could have been a few minutes, or it could have been as much as an hour. The person responsible might have left by now, or they could still be lingering nearby, waiting.

In the distance, Rose could see the trees around the small oasis. The plane had flown perhaps fifteen hundred feet before crashing into the boulders. Whoever was responsible for the crash might well be gone, perhaps concluding that no one had survived the wreck.

Moving slowly, looking around her, Rose moved from the shelter of the catclaw bushes, debating whether to try to find out if anyone was around, or flee as fast and as far as she could. She had no water, and she needed to wash the cut on her head before it had a chance to become infected. There was water in the small desert pond, and possibly some kind of plant that could be eaten. But if anyone was still around, she could be killed or taken prisoner.

The sound of a horse nickering made her decision for her. Turning toward the desert, Rose hurried away, trying to put as much distance between herself and the airplane as possible. They would look there first, before pursuing her—at least, she hoped so.

She could hear men's voices and the sound of hooves on the rocky ground. Running blindly, she dashed around a pile of rocks and fled onward. Her heart pounding with dread, Rose put on more speed as she heard one of the men shout, and then the sound of horses galloping after her. The men had seen her footprints.

Looking around desperately, Rose searched for any hiding place she could find. The vegetation was sparser here, with only low brush and cacti dotting the barren landscape.

Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw the men pursuing her, riding skillfully around the spiny vegetation. Rose was gasping for breath, fighting against the stitch in her side, and she knew that she couldn't run much farther. When one man pulled a gun and fired, narrowly missing her, she ducked behind the largest cactus she could see and crouched down, seeking any shelter possible. Over and over she cursed herself for being stupid enough to fly into a land torn by revolution. She should have let Will stay there, and be a Villista, though refusing to search for him would have hurt Esther.

They were upon her in a moment. One man spoke harshly to her, gesturing to her to stand up. Rose didn't understand his words, but she understood the gesture. Standing, she looked around at the four men who had shot her plane down, wondering what they intended to do.

The one who had spoken to her shouted again, a question in his voice. Rose strained to understand, then shook her head. He spoke too quickly for her to understand anything with her limited Spanish.

"_No habla Espanol_," she told him, remembering that much.

He stopped speaking to her and called to one of the others. The man rode up to her, making a remark that she did not understand, but which made his friends laugh maliciously. Taking one booted foot from the stirrup, he lashed out at her, giving her a kick that sent her tumbling into the cactus. He laughed again as she shrieked and struggled to free herself from the spiny plant.

Rose got to her feet, glowering at the man who had kicked her. She tugged at the spines embedded in her skin, then darted around him, trying to escape. He grabbed her before she got more than a few feet, flinging her to the ground. She landed hard, the wind knocked out of her.

One of the other men dismounted from his horse, yanking her to her feet. Pinning her hands behind her back, he spoke to the man who had first spoken to her.

The man responded, nodding, indicating what he should do with her. Before Rose could protest, he had tied her hands behind her back. Marching her over to his horse, he mounted, then dragged her up in front of him.

Rose squirmed, trying to move off of the uncomfortable saddle horn. She knew that she couldn't escape now.

Her captor laughed, hauling her into a sitting position and smacking her backside. He said a word that she did recognize, "_Puta_," and rode off with his cohorts, still laughing.


	65. The Stranger 11

Chapter Sixty-Five

They rode for most of the afternoon. As the sun was beginning to set in the west, they finally stopped in a semi-open space surrounded by brush and cactus.

Rose slid off the horse gratefully, exhausted from hours of being jostled along. The man who seemed to be in charge, whom Rose had heard the others call Guerrero, ordered her captor to take care of the horses. Another man grabbed her, untying her hands and demanding in Spanish and a few words of broken English that she make dinner.

Rubbing her hands to restore circulation, Rose hurried to do as she was told. Her knowledge of Spanish, she had discovered, was better than she had thought, but at the moment she wished that she didn't understand it so well. She could deal with cooking, and even with being jostled on a horse for hours at a time, but it was what she knew would come later that she didn't want to think about.

While they were traveling, she had picked up enough from the men's conversations, particularly the comments about her, and from the looks that they gave her, that she was expected to be the night's entertainment. She knew what to expect, of course—she wasn't an innocent virgin—but she wasn't looking forward to it. She tried to reassure herself that she had been raped before, and she had survived, but it was all she could do to keep herself from running blindly into the growing darkness, to try to escape into the desert.

It would be foolhardy in the extreme to try to escape now, though. If she made one move to escape, they would be on her in seconds, and it would be that much worse for her. She had no idea what they planned to do with her after they had made use of her—whether they would kill her, or free her, or drag her along further. She had already tried to escape once, suddenly throwing herself from the horse as they passed a sandy wash, but with her hands tied she had been unable to get up and run, and she had quickly been recaptured, with several bruises and scrapes all she had to show for her escape attempt.

Her hands were untied now, she thought, considering the possibilities. If she somehow managed to escape into the brush, she could move quickly and fend for herself. But she was being closely watched, and her captors were heavily armed. She didn't know if this particular group considered themselves Villistas, or were simply bandits. In times of war, the line between soldier and criminal was often very fine, and many people crossed that boundary both ways. If they were Villistas, she thought, they were the sort who gave the movement a bad name.

As Rose bent over the fire, she thought of, and discarded, several different escape plans. She could attack with a burning stick, but the chances of that working were very slim. Minor burns were unlikely to stop any one of them for long, and only one of her captors appeared filthy enough to catch fire easily. Furthermore, it would be easy for them to turn the flames on her.

She could attack with the knife she had been given to slice bacon, but it was dull, and it would take a great deal of effort to do any significant damage to any one of them. By the time she had killed one person with the knife, the others would have dragged her away several times over, unless she got the individual in a vulnerable spot, such as the throat. And even then, the chances of her escaping would be very slim.

As she prepared the food, another idea occurred to her. The men seemed to be quite interested in her body, and she had learned enough feminine wiles to know that she could use that to her advantage. They couldn't rape her without a fight, but she doubted that she could win against all four of them. Against one man, maybe, but not against four. However, if she pretended to like them, to want them, she might get through it without injury, and, she thought, it might just make them trust her a little bit more—maybe enough that her hands wouldn't be tied, and she could escape while they slept. She thought that at least one would be on guard, but it would be easier to overcome one man than all four of them.

_And if it doesn't work?_ a little voice inside her head nagged her. She pushed the thought aside. If it didn't work, at least she would maintain a modicum of control, and reduce the risk of being injured. She could only hope that she wouldn't become pregnant or catch a disease from one of them. Pregnancy, she knew, was unlikely, as it was her time of month, but disease was still a distinct possibility, if one of them was infected. She half-hoped that her menstrual blood would put them off, but she didn't count on it. This didn't seem to be an overly fastidious group.

Steeling herself, Rose gave what she hoped was a seductive look to the men as she dished up their food and handed them the plates. Two of them looked confused—she had been trying to escape earlier—one grinned lewdly at her, and the leader, Guerrero, looked at her suspiciously.

Her stomach growled, and she looked longingly at the food that was left, wondering if she would get into further trouble if she ate it. The man who had given her the lewd smile gestured to her to eat, making a remark that made the others laugh maliciously. Quickly, before he could change his mind, Rose wolfed down the food that was left, suspecting that she would need her strength.

Guerrero glowered at her, his eyes still suspicious. He didn't trust her seductive looks, or the way she moved as she cleaned the dishes, trying to be as enticing as possible. She was determined to make her plan work.

As Rose finished cleaning up, she hoped that the men would find something else to entertain themselves for a while. In spite of her efforts to be seductive and in control, she wasn't looking forward to what was going to happen. Her heart sank, though, when she realized that three of the men were arguing over her, arguing over who would get her first. She didn't understand all of their words, but their gestures and the looks they gave her made their intent obvious.

Only Guerrero stood back, watching her to make sure she didn't try to sneak away. He was the only one who hadn't made lewd remarks about her that afternoon, she realized, and suspected that the only reason he had allowed her to be taken along instead of being killed was that the men who followed him wanted entertainment, and it was easier to keep control of them when they were content. None of the three arguing over her seemed particularly intelligent, something that Rose thought she might be able to use to her advantage, but Guerrero was no fool. He knew how to keep his group of associates happy, and he wasn't deceived by her ruse. He was the one she would have to watch out for.

The three men who had been arguing over her finally decided who would get her first, and that man, the one who had ridden with her all afternoon, walked toward her. Taking a deep breath, Rose moved in his direction, forcing her hips to sway seductively as she did so. He leered at her and took her by the arm, leading her toward his bedroll.


	66. The Stranger 12

Chapter Sixty-Six

Rose sat near the banked remains of the fire, resting her head on her knees. She had gone through with her plan, taking on all three of the men who had wanted her favors. She shuddered inwardly.

She had been an actress for many years, but the role of whore was never one she had expected to have to play. Acting was something done on the stage or the screen, not something done to save her life in the midst of a vast desert wasteland, but she had done it.

She felt sick inside, much as she had the first time Cal had come to her bed. She hadn't enjoyed the men's attention in the slightest, though she had pretended that she did in order to win them over. She had never liked playing the whore, though this time it had been for survival, rather than money. But it didn't change what she was, what she had become. She had had no choice, she told herself, but it didn't make her feel any better. She had vowed never to be a whore again, but that was what she was.

At least, she reassured herself, it had worked, and none of them had been as bad as Cal, none as brutal. She looked in the direction of the guard standing in the shadows, just outside of the firelight. They had been pleased with her, and had left her hands untied, much to the displeasure of Guerrero. But the three men following him had decided to trust her, more fool they. After having their way with her, they had gotten drunk, offering her some of the liquor as well. Rose had pretended to drink, though she had actually done nothing more than dribble some of the liquor done her front, which she had then used to disinfect the cut on her head. But the men had been amused when she had acted intoxicated, laughing at her antics and her attempts to speak Spanish.

Two of them had drunk far more than was intelligent, and were now snoring loudly, sprawled in their bedrolls near the fire. She wondered if they would awaken before morning. The guard had drunk far less, but he had still consumed some liquor. Only Guerrero had forgone the drinking.

Rose glanced in Guerrero's direction. He appeared to be asleep, his chest rising and falling evenly. She wondered if she could chance escape now, with two of them men passed out drunk and Guerrero asleep—if indeed he was asleep. She didn't trust him anymore than he trusted her.

Moving quietly, Rose got to her feet and crept toward the guard. As she walked, she scanned the ground for a rock that she could use as a weapon.

Finding one, she concealed it in a fold of her baggy pants and sauntered over to the guard. He whirled around in alarm, but relaxed when Rose gave him a silly grin and leaned against him, still acting a little drunk.

She murmured a few words in English, knowing that he wouldn't understand. Looking at him, she began to unbutton her shirt, trying to distract him.

He laughed quietly, shaking his head. Rose pretended to be disappointed, rebuttoning her shirt with feigned difficulty. The guard laughed and sat down on the ground, encouraging her to sit beside him.

Rose did as he wanted, leaning drunkenly against him while she transferred the rock to her left hand. While his attention was elsewhere, she quickly raised the rock and slammed it against the back of his head.

The guard slumped to the ground. Rose scrambled to her feet, wondering if she'd killed him. She couldn't take the time to find out, though. She had to move, and quickly.

Leaving the rock behind, she crept into the darkness, heading for the area where the horses had been tied for the night. Just as she reached it, she heard a quiet voice behind her.

"_Puta_," Guerrero hissed, reaching out and grabbing her by the arm. He hadn't been asleep at all, and Rose realized from his expression that he had seen the whole thing.

"No! Let me go!" Rose begged, then realized he had only understood her first word. But she couldn't think of how to say the words in Spanish.

In a lightening-quick move, he flung her to the ground, pulling his knife. Rose scrambled to get out of the way, but he was on her in a moment, the knife plunging in the direction of her throat.

She jerked her head to the side just in time. The knife plunged into the sand beside her, leaving a thin line of red on her exposed neck. Fighting for her life now, she made a grab for the knife, only to have Guerrero get it first.

As he jerked her head back, Rose did the only thing she could think of. Reaching out desperately, she grabbed the gun from the holster on his leg. Before she fully comprehended what she was doing, she pressed the gun against his chest and pulled the trigger.

Guerrero's eyes went wide with shock. He had never expected Rose to go for his gun, or to shoot him with it. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times, and then he went limp, falling across her.

Rose pushed him off and struggled to her feet, still clutching the gun. Looking back in the direction of the camp, she suddenly realized that no one had heard the gunshot. The guard was still unconscious, or perhaps dead, and the two drunken men had barely roused at the sound of the shot before falling back into their inebriated sleep.

Backing away, Rose stared at Guerrero, the full comprehension of what she had done hitting her like a freight train. She had killed someone, again, and this time it hadn't been an accident. She had grabbed the gun and pulled the trigger before she thought about it, and now another person was dead at her hands. _Maybe more than one,_ she thought, glancing at the guard.

Rose's breath came in choked gasps of horror. This time it really was self-defense, but it didn't matter. She had killed again, and another death would haunt her for the rest of her life. Overcome by nausea, she bent double, retching violently into the brush.

Whore, murderer...the words went through her head as she stumbled in the direction of the horses, still determined, in spite of everything, to escape.


	67. The Stranger 13

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Rose rode northward through the desert, slumped tiredly in the saddle. It had been two days since she had killed Guerrero and stolen one of the bandits' horses, making good her escape.

She had been fortunate, she realized. In spite of everything that had happened, she was alive, and there had been no pursuit.

She had grabbed the first horse she came across, soothing the skittish animal as she saddled it. She had been fortunate, too, in that the man who had cared for the horses that evening had been careless with the saddles, leaving them in a pile near to where the horses were tied. In a matter of minutes, she had had the animal saddled and had been on her way.

She had been lucky in another way, too. The guard she had hit with the rock wasn't dead. As she had climbed into the saddle and ridden away, she had glimpsed him getting slowly to his feet, holding his head. At least she didn't have his death on her conscience.

She had ridden through the night and well into the morning. She had no food or water, but at least she had not been pursued. They could have caught her easily, she knew, just by following the tracks of the horse she had stolen. All of the surviving bandits had horses available, since she had killed Guerrero. She didn't know if they had pursued her or not, knowing that she had had a head start of several hours, even riding in the dark, and the surviving men would all have been nursing headaches in the morning, the guard from being hit with the rock, the other two from drinking themselves into a stupor.

They would probably also have taken the time to see to Guerrero, Rose realized, though she wasn't sure just how loyal they had been to him. If they had been loyal, they might have taken the time to bury him, or cart him off to the nearest town, but if they hadn't felt any loyalty toward him, they might have left him to the coyotes and vultures.

She shuddered at the thought. It wasn't right, leaving someone to be torn apart by scavengers, no matter how bad the person might have been. She would have tried to bury him herself, in an attempt to assuage her guilty conscience, had she not known that time was of the essence. She had had to escape at once, or her life would have been forfeit.

Rose looked out over the landscape, hoping to see some sign of inhabitation. Nothing. She had been riding for two days, and had seen no one. Perhaps, she thought, she just wasn't looking hard enough. She was exhausted, having gotten little sleep since she had left the small town where she had found Will, and the wound on her head was only now beginning to heal. She had no food, and had drunk nothing except the juice of cacti.

She was grateful that one of Esther's ranch hands had shown her the trick of getting "water" from a cactus. The water was not what one would find in a creek or river, but it kept her alive. The spiny, forbidding looking cacti stored their own water supply inside their thorny exterior, and it could be reached by breaking the cactus open with a rock and pounding the flesh inside to a pulp, releasing the juice. It wasn't the most palatable drink she had ever had, but it quenched her thirst and provided a little nourishment.

Rose had no way of carrying any of the juice with her, so as soon as her thirst was quenched, she would step back and let the horse drink from the mutilated cactus, keeping a close eye out to be sure that it didn't try to chew on the spiny skin. She wished that she could eat the way the horse could, watching enviously as it cropped the short, dry grasses of the winter landscape. Twice, she had tried to catch small animals, but there was no way she could run fast enough to catch them, and her aim was too poor to allow her to hit them with a thrown rock. She almost wished that she hadn't dropped Guerrero's gun when she had gone to steal a horse, since she was a decent marksman and probably could have caught something to eat with it.

She knew that she had to find food, and soon. She hadn't eaten in two days, except for the cactus juice, and, although some of the plants were recognizable to her, none offered anything edible in early February. It had been a dry winter, and the spring bloom, what there would be of it, was weeks away.

Staunchly, she rode on, heading farther north, knowing that eventually she would reach the United States—if she survived.

On the third day out, late in the afternoon, the horse went lame. Rose, not knowing what else to do, unsaddled it and set it free, hoping that it would be able to fend for itself. She couldn't take care of it, and to continue riding would only hurt the animal further.

Leaving the now-useless saddle behind, Rose continued on foot. She didn't know how much longer she could go on. It had been three days since she had eaten, and the cut on her head had reversed its healing and was beginning to fester. At least, she thought, if she did survive the cut wouldn't leave a scar. It was under her hair, but perhaps that wouldn't matter. The chances of her surviving were growing slimmer and slimmer.

The area that she was traveling through was dry; even the cacti were few and far between. She had no supplies except for a sharp-edged rock that she had found the evening before and taken with her. The one advantage she had found was that the weather was relatively cool in winter. Had she been traveling in the heat of summer, she would have died long before.

Darkness fell, and still she stumbled along. She wasn't even sure why anymore.

At last, she came to a small, dry stream bed, and descended into it, curling up in the soft sand. She hoped that it would not rain and catch her in a flash flood, then hoped just as fervently that it would rain. She hadn't had anything to drink since early afternoon.

Wrapping her arms around her knees, she curled into a fetal position, hoping that no predators would find her before morning. She was tired...so tired, and even as she worried about being attacked by a hungry animal, she felt herself slipping into sleep.

Rose was awakened by bright sunlight. She had been lying in the shade of a dry smoke tree, but a look at the sky told her that it was mid-morning, far later than she usually slept. She sat up, looking around.

The vegetation was thicker here, encouraged by the occasional abundance of water. Only a few smoke trees grew in the streambed itself—other vegetation was washed away by the occasional violent flash floods—but other plants grew on the banks and in the surrounding terrain.

With a look of relief, Rose made her way over to a barrel cactus that stood alone, the few short plants growing around it long since chewed away by desert wildlife. Drawing the sharp stone from her pocket, she unwrapped the dry grass she had covered it with and set about opening the cactus.

It took a long time, and she was getting ready to scream from frustration when she finally succeeded in chopping a hole in it. A little more work opened it enough for her to access the juicy flesh inside.

Pounding the inside of the cactus until it yielded its juice, Rose realized how weak she was. She was dehydrated and starving, and a tentative examination of the cut on her head revealed that the infection had grown worse overnight. She worried about the infection, and the possibility of gangrene—she certainly couldn't have her head amputated. Scooping some of the juice into her hand, she dribbled it on the cut, scrubbing at the soft, infected scabs until they came off and the cleansing blood was able to flow.

The cut hurt badly, but at least the bruise around it was healing. It no longer ached to the touch, except for the cut itself, and she continued to scrub at it until she had removed the worst of the infected tissue, using the sterile juice from the inside of the cactus to cleanse it.

When she had finished cleaning the cut, Rose removed her shirt and pressed the part of it that she had spilled tequila on to the cut until it stopped bleeding.

Putting her shirt back on, Rose bent to the cactus again, scooping the juice into her mouth, and even ripping up a bit of the flesh to chew on, wondering if she should move on, or stay where she was and hope that someone would come along. She was feverish from the cut, and she had no guarantee that she would find help if she left. The cactus would provide enough water for a short time, but after that, she would have to move on.

The chances of someone happening along were slim, Rose admitted, and if someone did find her, they could be as bad or worse than the men she had escaped. If she moved on, she might come to a ranch or a village. The people at such a place would be more likely to offer help than a stranger riding through the desert.

By noon, she had made her decision. Tucking the rock back into her pocket, she drank the last of the juice she had pounded out of the cactus and set along her way again, slightly rejuvenated from the rest and fluid.

Rose walked along doggedly, concentrating upon putting one foot in front of the other. She saw the brush around her growing thicker, saw the tracks of animals, but the meaning of these signs didn't occur to her at first.

It was well into the afternoon when she stopped, exhausted, wondering if she had made the right decision in moving on. She stopped in the shade of a creosote bush for a few moments, sitting on the ground, until a bunch of ants crawling over her encouraged her to get up and leave.

She stumbled on, ready to drop, until she noticed that the ground was growing damp beneath her feet. Suddenly realizing what the damp ground meant, she pushed on, forcing herself to keep moving, until she emerged in a small, spring-fed oasis.


	68. The Stranger 14

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Rose fell to her knees beside the clear pool of water. Almost overwhelmed with relief, she dropped her head to the cool liquid and gulped down great mouthfuls of it. It was slightly brackish, like many desert water holes, but she was too thirsty to care.

Once her thirst was quenched, Rose sat up, wiping her mouth on the back of hand. For the first time, she took a good look around her.

The pool of water was small, but clean and fresh, perhaps twenty feet across. On the far bank, a swath of winter-brown cattails stood, their dry leaves rustling faintly in the slight breeze. Tall palm trees, their trunks covered by dead fronds, grew thickly in the small canyon, as well as leafless willows, their swelling leaf buds showing that spring was just around the corner. The hillsides above were dotted with yucca, century plants, ocotillo, and cacti, as well as the ubiquitous creosote bush. The tracks of animals were imprinted in the mud around the spring-fed pool.

Sitting back, Rose allowed herself to rest for a moment, only then realizing just how exhausted she was. She hadn't eaten in four days, and had drunk only the juice of the cacti she had broken open. The cut on her head, exposed to the dry air, was doing better, but she was near her limits, and desperately needed food and rest.

Food was her first priority. Getting to her feet, Rose made her way to the stand of cattails. Picking up a dry stick along the way, she dug into the soft mud surrounding the plants until she had succeeding in unearthing several of them. Rinsing them in the spring, she cleaned away the dead leaves until she came across the fresh roots, hearts, and young green bases of the cattails. Sitting back on her heels, she slowly ate two of the plants, knowing that to eat quickly after going without food for so long would probably make her sick. It didn't take much to fill her shrunken stomach, but she had never found the potato-flavored roots so delicious. Hunger was an excellent seasoning.

Having eaten for the first time in days, Rose put the remaining plants in her pockets and stumbled over to one of the palm trees. Pulling off several fronds, she shook them to make certain no biting insects or reptiles were concealed within them. Piling them on the ground some distance from the water, she lay down on the soft pile, pulling two of the larger fronds over her for protection against the growing chill of evening. Curling up, she closed her eyes.

She was awakened by the chirp of birds and the feeling of sunlight on her face. Sitting up, she pushed the fronds off, feeling more rested than she had in days. Slowly, she got up, yawning and stretching, before making her way down to the pool for a drink of water. After eating the rest of the cattail plants she had dug up, she thought about what to do next.

She wasn't ready to move on, that was certain. She needed to take a few days to rest and recuperate, and to think about what to do next. Sitting on a sun-warmed rock, she thought about what to do.

She had seen no evidence of people anywhere near the canyon, but there were fresh tracks of wild animals all around the water. She was surprised that none had awakened her the night before, but she had been so exhausted that it would have been difficult to wake her, and she supposed that many animals might be skittish around humans. She would have been an easy target for a hungry predator, but she had been fortunate. None had come near her. There were no tracks around her makeshift bed of palm fronds, though there was evidence that some small animal had been caught and eaten near the water.

Her first concern was to treat the cut on her head, and then to find more food. There were plenty of cattails, but they wouldn't sustain her—not in her weakened condition. She needed more than the watery vegetables to survive.

Making her way to the willow trees, Rose used the sharp rock from her pocket to cut several slender twigs. She remembered from the book she had bought in Alaska that willows were good painkillers if chewed or made into a tea, and they could be placed on wounds to help healing.

She didn't have any matches, and she wasn't strong enough to start a fire by rubbing sticks together, so she chewed the willow twigs, grimacing at the bitter taste. Willow had been used medicinally for millennia, but it had been a decided improvement when the active chemical had been isolated and made into the modern painkiller aspirin.

In spite of the bitter taste, Rose soon felt the painkilling effects of the herb. The aching, stinging pain in the cut on her head eased, and she put the chewed bits of willow on the rock while she stripped off her filthy clothes and waded into the pool to bathe. She didn't like the idea of polluting the clean water by bathing in it, but the spring that fed the pond was constantly washing the old water away and putting in new.

Feeling refreshed, even though the shaded water was cold, Rose tore a strip from her shirt, washed it thoroughly, and used it to bind the chewed willow twig poultice to the cut on her head. It was beginning to scab over, dry scabs that precluded infection, but she wasn't taking any chances. It would be easy for her to die of infection out here, with no one to help her.

That done, Rose turned to the task of washing her filthy, blood and dirt encrusted clothes. She grimaced at the sight of the blood on her shirt, both hers and Guerrero's, and left it soaking in the cold water while she cleaned her other clothes and set them out to dry. She was glad that there was no one nearby to see her. The birds and lizards couldn't care less whether she was clothed or not.

As she went to retrieve her shirt, Rose looked into a clear section of the pond with sunlight slanting over it. Examining her face, she saw that she had lost weight and was sunburned, her eyes sunken into her reddened face. Her hair was matted, and there were dark circles under her eyes, in spite of the rest she had had the night before. She still felt tired, but there were things she had to do before she could rest again.

Retrieving her torn shirt from where she had left it to soak, Rose knelt down at the edge of the pond and began to rub the bloodstains with sand. She had no soap or bleach, but sand was also useful for cleaning. The bloodstains didn't completely come out, but the shirt was cleaner than it had been, and she put it back on, ignoring its damp, tattered condition. She had no other shirt, and she couldn't walk around searching for food without it.

As soon as she was dressed, Rose looked around, considering what kind of food might be found. What she needed most was meat, but that would have to wait until she could pounce upon some unsuspecting animal. She had no gun, and her aim with rocks at a moving target was poor, to say the least. The animals would come to the pond to drink at night, and she could try to catch one then. In the meantime, she needed to explore any other resources.

There were no fish in the pond, but she went back to the stand of cattails and dug up a dozen more, stripping them down and wrapping the edible portions in the dead leaves. Looking around, she realized that the ground was littered with berries from the palm trees. She had heard that palm fruits were edible; they were called dates, she remembered.

The fruits on the ground were well-trampled by the wildlife, and many of them had been eaten, with only the seeds remaining, but there were a number of strings of berries still hanging from the trees. Fetching several rocks from the hillside, Rose flung them at the strings of fruit, cheering to herself when a stone found its target and a cluster of fruit fell to the ground. She might not be able to hit moving targets with a thrown rock, but the stationary clusters of dates were another matter.

Adding them to her small hoard of food, she looked around, wondering what else in this watered spot might prove edible. Walking slowly down the canyon, she knocked several dried cactus fruits to the ground, placing them on a plate made from the stem of a palm frond. Checking the dried pods of the yuccas, she recalled being told that the seeds could eaten, and shook them out, filling one pocket with the dry seeds.

Making her way back to the pond, Rose looked at what she had collected, and began to sort it out, determination replacing her earlier despair. She _would_ survive, whatever happened.

When the food she had gathered was arranged on several sections of palm frond, she took a thick section of frond stem and a dry cattail stem and attempted to make a fire. She had never made a fire by rubbing two pieces of wood together, but she was willing to try.

After about half an hour, Rose admitted that her attempt at fire building wasn't working. She had cleared a space, to prevent a fire from getting out of control and ravaging the area, and had collected the necessary materials, but thus far none of her attempts at spinning the cattail stick against the palm wood had done more than create a slight warmth.

She was getting frustrated when an idea occurred to her. Taking the sharp rock, she dug a small depression in the palm wood, then inserted the cattail stick, holding it in place. She was still tired and weak, but this time her attempt was successful. After about twenty minutes of intense spinning, the wood finally smoked, then formed a hot coal that burned through the palm stem into the pile of dry tinder below.

Blowing on it, Rose added more bits of dry grass and leaves, then larger twigs, and finally some of the pieces of wood she had collected. None of the pieces of fuel were very large, so she had to feed the fire often, or bank it, but it was a source of warmth and protection.

Waiting for sunset, Rose skewered the dried cactus fruits on a green willow stick, burning off the spines before eating them. Once the burned outsides were cooled, and the charcoal scraped off, they were a concentrated, sweet source of food. She ate the seeds, too, parching them on a flat rock heated by the fire.

At sunset, Rose banked her fire and crept into a hidden spot beneath the willow brush to wait. The animals would come to drink soon, and, while she certainly couldn't run fast enough to catch one, if she had the element of surprise she might be able to grab an unwary creature, preferably not one with a poisonous bite, though at this point a rattlesnake was beginning to sound good, so long as she could kill it without being bitten.

She didn't have long to wait. Several rabbits, lured by the water, came close. They hesitated, noses twitching at her scent, but with water so scarce in the desert they had little choice but to drink. Rose watched them closely, waiting for one to come closer, waiting for one of them to let its guard down. She especially kept an eye on a scraggly, weak-looking animal.

When the rabbit ventured close to her hiding place, she pounced. She caught hold of the rabbit, but it struggled, and she lost her grip, dropping it into the pond. As the animal struggled to get out of the water, she grabbed it again, this time getting a firmer hold on the wet animal. As the rabbit kicked and made a high-pitched squealing noise, frightening the other rabbits away, she dashed its head against a rock, ending its struggles. The rabbit went limp, dead from the blow, its eyes still open and appearing to stare at her accusingly.

Rose could hardly bring herself to cook and eat the animal, but she needed meat, and after going to the trouble to kill the creature, she wasn't very well going to leave it to rot or be eaten by predators. Using her sharp stone, which she had accidentally improved by dropping it and breaking a sharp piece off, she hacked at the skin. She knew how to skin an animal, of course, but it was much harder with a rock than with a steel knife, and she had butchered a good part of the skin as well as the meat before she had succeeded at skinning the rabbit and gutting it.

Stuffing the edible innards back into the animal, as well as some pieces of the cattail plants, Rose raked away the ashes and placed the rabbit directly on the coals, using two green sticks to turn it every so often. It seemed to take forever for the meat to cook, and she finally used her sticks to rake some coals over it, cooking it more quickly.

As she watched it cook, she remembered when she had learned many of these survival skills in Alaska. The desert was a much different environment, but some things were the same. Meat could be cooked on coals equally well in Alaska and Mexico, and while the plants were different, edible parts could still be collected and eaten. Indeed, she had known just how to prepare the rabbit because they existed in both places, as did cattails and willows.

Finally, the meat was cooked. The coals had burned it black on the outside, but the inside was warm and juicy, the vegetables and organs she had stuffed inside cooked to perfection. It had been a long time since she had eaten rabbit, and her guilt over killing the animal didn't lessen her enjoyment of her meal. She had been starving for days, and it surprised her when she was able to eat the entire rabbit and pick the bits of meat from the bones. She wrapped the bones and leftover innards in the skin and crept into the brush some distance from her camp, leaving the skin lying open. Some coyote or bobcat would undoubtedly clean up the remains.

Wrapping up her remaining supplies of fruits, vegetables, and seeds, Rose tucked them under her frond bed and lay down, staring at the faint glow of coals from the banked fire. She was tired, but sleep did not come as easily as she had expected.

Her mind was racing. What would she do next? She had decided to stay at the oasis for a few days, until the cut on her head was healed and she had had a chance to collect a little food to take with her. The swelling buds on the willow told her that spring was coming, and the landscape to the north had a large number of cacti, so she shouldn't have much trouble surviving.

The United States was only two or three days journey away at most. She had seen a familiar range of mountains to the north while searching for food that day, and if she headed northwest, she would eventually arrive in a populated area of California, and undoubtedly run across some populated areas of Mexico on the way. She knew that her bedraggled appearance would put people off, but she would probably be able to get food and water, even if she had to steal it. The question was, what would she do once she returned to the United States?

Staying in Mexico was out of the question, obviously. She didn't know anyone except her kidnappers, and she really didn't want to meet them again. She could be in trouble with the law if they had reported her for killing Guerrero, and didn't think she would last long if they found her again. The chances of their finding her in the vast desert were remote, but she wasn't taking any chances. The chances of a plane being shot down by bandits were also remote, but it had happened. She was lucky to be alive.

In addition to not wanting to meet her captors again, she didn't speak much Spanish. As much as she dreaded going back to the United States and admitting that she had failed to bring Will back, there was nothing for her in Mexico. She doubted that Esther was still alive—it had been a good month since she had left on her search for the old woman's grandson—but she didn't want to think about how she would break the news to her if she was alive.

Rose lay back in her pile of fronds, wondering how she had gotten herself into this mess. A month ago, she had set out to find Esther's grandson and bring him back to claim his inheritance. Now, the grandson was dead, and she herself was running for her life through the forbidding desert. She had killed another person, and had sold herself in exchange for survival.

Curling up, Rose wrapped her arms around her legs, sickened at the thought of what she had done. It had been necessary for her survival, but she didn't feel any better about it. She hated killing, hated playing the whore. Guerrero's face haunted her, as did Marietta's, and she would never be able to forget either of them. She dreaded returning to the United States, fearing that she would have to tell Esther about Will's death, though the chances of the sick woman still being alive were very slim.

Looking up at the sky, Rose focused her gaze on the brilliant stars overhead. Nearby, at the pond, she could hear the sounds of animals coming to drink, the sounds of other animals stalking them. Few predators would come close to her with the fire, but she still curled up tighter, praying that they would not consider her to be an easy meal. She had no weapon but her stone knife, and at that moment she desperately wished that she had the faithful Tripper at her side, ready to defend her.

The hours passed, and at last Rose slept, but it was an uneasy sleep, with her memories of the past and her fears about the future impinging upon her dreams.


	69. The Stranger 15

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Four days later, Rose felt rested and healed enough to continue her journey north. It was none too soon. She had nearly exhausted the supply of food in the area of the oasis, and while spring was beginning, the new growth had just begun to show itself.

With her clothes clean but tattered, and a little food wrapped in a piece of palm frond and stuffed in her pocket, she began the journey north again. By the second day, she came across a small town in the better watered area of northwest Baja, but she avoided it, fearing that the bandits who had kidnapped her might have reported Guerrero's death to the authorities. If they had, they might be looking for her, and she had spent more than enough time in American jails. She had no wish to be placed in a Mexican jail, which from all reports were far worse.

Although she avoided the towns, Rose still needed food and water, and stopped at the ranches and farms she encountered to beg for these things. No one seemed inclined to turn her in, but perhaps word of what she had done had not reached the remoter areas, if it had been reported at all. People looked at her suspiciously, regarding her as a vagrant, but no one seemed inclined to try to arrest her, and she took pains to cause no trouble.

On the third day after she had left the oasis behind, Rose crossed the border into California, near the town of Campo. From there, it was only a day and half's journey farther to Esther's ranch.

Rose approached the ranch with a sense of dread. What if Esther was still alive, and she had to explain that her grandson, her heir, had been killed in a plane crash in the Mexican desert? What would the old woman think of her, for having failed at something so important? It hadn't been Rose's fault that the plane had crashed, but this didn't lessen her guilt.

She almost felt relieved when she arrived at the ranch and found no one. After taking the time to make herself presentable, she walked into town to see what she could find out.

Esther had died two weeks before Rose had returned to the United States. Rose felt an instant wave of relief that she wouldn't have to explain Will's death to Esther, and then felt even guiltier for feeling that relief. It wasn't right that she should feel relieved at not having to explain what had happened.

Esther had been buried on a grassy hilltop on the ranch, and it was there that Rose first went when she returned. The first green shoots were showing themselves on the surrounding land, and the view from the little fence-enclosed grave was beautiful. Nearby, another grave, that of Esther's husband, sat covered with an overgrowth of grass and weeds. No one had cleaned it up in a long time.

Rose spent most of the afternoon on the hill, clearing away the grass and weeds, before she wished Esther a final farewell and went back to the deserted house. She didn't cry, though the old woman had, in many ways, been a mother to her. She couldn't. It seemed as though all emotion had been drained from her, leaving nothing behind.

Rose walked around the ranch, looking to see if anyone was in residence, but the workers had all been paid off shortly after Esther had died, and had moved on. The livestock had been sold off to pay debts, and only the buildings and the land were left. Even Señorito was missing, having followed one of the ranch hands when he left. She looked all over for Tripper, and even inquired in town if anyone had seen him, but there was no sign of the dog. No one knew what had happened to him.

Esther's lawyer tried to detain her as she prepared to leave, but she just shook her head and walked away. She knew that Esther had left her a few things, but she had no interest in them. She would disappear, as surely as she had from Philadelphia, and the ranch would eventually be sold off or given to other members of the family.

The ranch that had been home to her no longer felt like a home. It would soon be sold off, and she would have to leave anyway, so she saw no reason to stay longer than it took her to collect the belongings she had left there—her rucksack, a few clothes, the three pouches of gold dust that were left, and her camping equipment.

Even had she been invited to stay, she wouldn't have. Her guilt over her failure to bring Esther's grandson back haunted her, and within two days she walked away again, never looking back. She had returned to America, but she wasn't truly at home anywhere. She was, as she had always been, a stranger in a strange land.


	70. The Prodigal 1

Chapter Seventy

May 19, 1917

Rose trudged slowly down the dusty road, her floppy straw hat pulled low over her face to keep the noon sun away. Although it was only mid-May, the Southern California weather was hot and dry, the brush and grass along the road already seared yellow and brown by the late spring heat.

Rose paused in the shade of a tall cottonwood tree, its fluffy white seeds still floating in the still air. Leaning back against the tree, she pulled out her canteen and took a long drink.

It was only a few more miles to the next town. The small towns of inland Southern California were a day or two apart, built by people set on finding their own space but remaining close enough to their neighbors to see them a few times a year. A few cars could be found in the towns, but the chief mode of transportation was still horse and wagon. Most of the streets of the towns were not yet paved, making them muddy in winter and hard and dusty in the summer.

She had been drifting from town to town since she had left the Henke ranch in late February, sometimes staying and taking a job for a time, but always moving on again. She didn't know why she felt she had to keep moving, but it was as though something were calling her, making her restless and dissatisfied wherever she was. Most likely, she thought, it was her own memories driving her on, not allowing her to stay in one place long enough to settle in or to get to know anyone. No matter where she had gone, or where she had settled, it had always turned out badly, and she invariably succumbed to the urge to move on before anything could happen again.

She had first gone to San Diego, taking a job as a waitress. It had lasted two weeks. Then, the restlessness overcame her again, and she had quit her job and traveled on, slowly making her way northeast. Where she was going, she didn't know. She knew what the next town was, but she never knew if she would be inclined to stay for long. People regarded her suspiciously when she came into town; she was a vagabond and a woman alone. More than once, she had been encouraged to leave as soon as she had arrived, and would stay only as long as she needed to buy the supplies necessary for her to continue her idle wanderings. She had little money left, but it didn't really matter. Sooner or later, she would find another job, would stay long enough to get the money she needed before departing.

Jobs were easier to find these days, since the United States had entered the war in Europe and many of the men were being called away. Someone had to take the jobs they were vacating, and women suddenly found themselves the breadwinners for themselves and their families. Rose had taken on several jobs that once would have been considered the province of men, including bartending in Temecula and planting potatoes in San Jacinto.

San Diego...El Cajon...Lakeside...Ramona...Warner Springs...Anza...Temecula...San Jacinto...the list of towns she had passed through went on and on. Some were nice, a few hostile, but none tempted her to stay. She had bypassed some small towns, not wanting to face the residents' suspicious looks and condemnation. The most recent town she had passed through was Perris, where she had stayed for the duration of the alfalfa festival, taking the opportunity to earn a little money by entertaining the revelers by singing, dancing, and acting out short one-person skits and monologues. She had earned enough money to continue on her way, having little desire to stay in the small, dusty farming town where she was subject to suspicious looks and close watching by the city police. Once the festival was over, she had continued on her way, heading northwest now.

Rose tucked the canteen back into her rucksack and straightened, slinging the pack over her back again. Just a few more miles, and she would be in Riverside, one of the larger towns in the region and the county seat. Maybe there she would find work and be able to convince herself to stay for more than a few days, more than a week or two. She had heard that it was a beautiful town, and as civilized as many of the larger towns and cities.

Sighing, she stepped out of the shade of the cottonwood and continued down the rutted dirt road. She was tired of wandering, tired of not knowing where her next meal was coming from. A part of her wanted to take a job and settle down, to stay in one place for more than a little while. But a bigger part pushed her to keep moving, to keep roaming. She didn't know what it was, or why she was so driven; she didn't know when she would stop. She had wanted to head out for the horizon, but the horizon kept stretching endlessly before her, luring her on and yet leaving her dissatisfied.

But she didn't know what else she could do. She had been pushing on, seeking that elusive horizon, since the day she had left Cal at the altar. She had run from danger, from her past, from a world that seemed too small and yet too overwhelming. Most of all, she had run from herself, from her fears and memories and guilt, from the things she could never forget or overcome.

The next town would be like the last, and so would the next, and the next...she would keep running, keep traveling, until she found that elusive peace she had sought for so long, a peace that could only come from within herself.

The rattle of a wagon and the sound of horse's hooves interrupted Rose's thoughts. Turning, she saw the cloud of dust that announced the wagon's location, moving slowly in her direction. Stopping, she waited, waving when the wagon came into view in hopes of hitching a ride for a ways.

The wagon came to a stop, the driver calling to the horses and pulling on the reins. Rose stepped forward to ask for a ride—and stopped, shocked, as she looked into a face that she had never thought she would see again.


	71. The Prodigal 2

Chapter Seventy-One

Rose was so surprised that she stumbled backward, tripping over a rock and landing with a splat in the muddy ditch beside the road. She stared up at the figure in shock.

_I'm dead. That must be it. I died in that plane crash in Mexico, and all this wandering was just a dream. Or maybe I'm dreaming, and I'll wake up any minute. Maybe I've been out in the sun too long—because this is not possible._

Jack Dawson climbed slowly down from the wagon and looked down at the mud-splattered figure before him. It was a young woman, he could tell, though he couldn't see who it was. Her hat had fallen over her face, shielding it from view.

Unable to resist the temptation, Rose pulled her hat away from her face and looked at him again. She shook her head and closed her eyes, trying to make to image go away. _It isn't possible._

Jack's mouth dropped open. "Rose?! Rose, what in the hell are you doing out here?"

Rose looked at him in confusion. What was she doing here? What was _he_ doing here? He was dead, wasn't he? Dead people weren't supposed to drive wagons along California highways.

She giggled, a bit hysterically. _I've gone insane. All this wandering has finally gotten to me. I've completely lost my mind._

Jack leaned forward, holding out a hand to help her to her feet. Rose just stared at him.

_He looks like Jack, same blonde hair, blue eyes, pronounced limp...wait! Jack doesn't have a limp, or he didn't, or...what in God's name is going on?_

Rose took his hand, allowing him to help her up. She brushed at the mud on her clothes and rucksack.

Jack repeated the question. "Rose, what are you doing here? Where's Cal?"

At that, a frightened look passed over Rose's face. Her heart pounded and her muscles tensed, ready to flee.

"Cal? He's here? Where is he? Where did you see him?" _I have to run, have to get away. I have to leave California. I'm not safe if he's here. Where can I go? New Orleans? Yes. New Orleans will work. He'll never think to look for me there—I hope._

"I don't know where he is. He's your husband."

"Husband? He's not my...wait. What's going on? Why are you here?" Rose was ready to run again. Nothing made sense, and it was all happening too fast.

"Are you looking for a ride into town?" Jack asked her, climbing back up on the wagon.

"I'm going into Riverside. Is that where you're going?" Rose couldn't believe they were having this conversation. For that matter, she couldn't believe they were conversing at all. He was supposed to be dead. She still wasn't completed convinced that he wasn't.

"That's where I'm going. Climb aboard."

Rose climbed onto the wagon seat, setting her knapsack in the back of the wagon amongst what appeared to be sacks of grain.

"What...how...you're dead!" she exclaimed as they set out down the road.

He looked at her strangely. "That's news to me."

"I don't believe it. I'm having a conversation with a ghost. Yes, that's it. You're a ghost."

"I'm awfully solid for a ghost."

On impulse, Rose grabbed his arm. The horses whinnied nervously as his grip on the reins loosened.

"You are real!" she exclaimed, letting go of him. "But...how? I don't understand. You died...in the water...after the ship went down."

He looked at her, blue eyes wide with confusion. "I survived...barely...but I lived. I thought you knew."

"No." Rose shook her head. "You were dead. I was sure you were dead. You were so cold...so still. I couldn't wake you up. I wanted to die with you—but I remembered the promise I'd made. So I let you go...and you sank down into the water and disappeared."

"I woke up under the water. I couldn't breathe...my lungs were full of water. I made it back to the surface and started coughing, trying to breathe...and someone in the boat heard me and came back for me. You had already been rescued, but you were unconscious. I guessed you'd fainted or something. The next thing I knew, I was in the ship's hospital on board the Carpathia. The doctor didn't want me to move, but when he turned his back I sneaked out. I saw you on the third class deck, walking toward the stairs with Cal. I knew I couldn't follow you, so I went back to the infirmary, hoping that you would come to me."

Rose was stunned. _So close...he was so close all the time...if only I'd turned my head, I would have seen him._

"Why didn't you try to contact me? Why didn't you tell me you were alive?"

"I thought you knew. I followed you to Philadelphia after the Carpathia docked, hoping that you would be able to get away from Cal, but you stayed with him. I saw you with him a couple of times in the city."

"And you never tried to approach me?"

"I thought you wanted to be with him. You smiled and talked to people, acting as though you were happy."

"I had to act that way...in public."

"I hoped that you would change your mind and leave him, but you didn't. I waited until your wedding day. At noon—the time that your wedding began, I left for the train station, and caught the 12:45 train to Chicago."

"I didn't marry Cal, Jack. I...left him at the altar. I ran home and packed a few things, and then fled to the train station. I bought a third class ticket on the one o'clock train to New York City." She closed her eyes, realizing. "If I had left fifteen minutes earlier, we would have run across each other. All these years, I've mourned for you...and you were alive all along."

The wagon jolted over a rut in the road, and Jack gripped the reins more tightly. "It's ironic, isn't it? Fifteen minutes...all these years, I'd thought you were married to Cal."

A thousand questions ran through Rose's mind—what had he been doing these past five years? Where did he live? What had brought him back to California? Was he married now? Where had that limp come from? Was it from the sinking? But this wasn't the time, or the place, to ask such questions. They would be in Riverside soon, and then...

"Do you live in Riverside?" she blurted out, not wanting to let him go so soon after she had found him again.

He nodded. "I live in a small house on the outskirts of town. I was in Moreno Valley today, trading goods from my employer's warehouse for grain from the farmers there. It saves them the trip, and allows Mr. Curtis to realize a higher profit than if the farmers had to bring their products themselves."

Rose nodded, thinking. _I shouldn't try to get too close to him. He might be married, might have a family...but I'd still like to know what he's been doing all these years. Perhaps, if he has a family, I can meet them._

"Are there any low-cost hotels in Riverside?" she asked, thinking that she might stay, for a short time at least.

"There are, but I'm not so sure you'd want to stay in one."

"I've stayed a lot of places the past five years, Jack. A run-down hotel doesn't bother me." She took a deep breath, trying to frame her words in such a way that they didn't sound suggestive. "I think I might stay in Riverside for a little while. Can we meet sometime, catch up on old times, maybe?" The minute she said it, she could have bitten her tongue. _Catch up on old times? What old times? We only knew each other for three days!_

She looked at Jack, gauging his reaction. He nodded, acting as though there was nothing odd about her words.

"Sure. There's a café on Main Street with low prices and good food. I'll show you where it is on our way into town. Meet me there at seven."

"All right." Rose wanted to ask if he would be bringing anyone with him, but held her tongue. It was none of her business, and she would find out soon enough.

Rose looked around as the wagon jolted its way into town. There were more cars than in most of the towns she had visited, though there still weren't many, and horses, buggies, and wagons were very much in evidence. A small dog yapped from behind an iron fence as they went by, and Rose looked at the houses lining the streets—mostly Victorian era buildings, though there were some newer ones as well.

Jack stopped in front of the warehouse where he worked, and pointed her in the direction of the cheapest hotel in town. "I'll see you at seven," he told her, making his way to the warehouse office door.

Rose nodded, noticing how pronounced his limp was as he made his way across the open yard. He almost looked as though he would be more comfortable with a cane to help him walk.

Pushing the thought from her mind, she turned and headed down the street in the direction of the hotel. She would see him in the evening—and could ask questions then. In the meantime, she needed to check into the hotel and look for some kind of work.


	72. The Prodigal 3

Chapter Seventy-Two

Jack walked slowly into the café, leaning on an intricately carved manzanita walking stick. He had made it himself, taking a long, broken manzanita limb and cutting it into the proper length for a walking stick, and then carving designs into it and varnishing it.

He settled himself onto a bench at the front of the cafe to wait, holding the walking stick out of people's way. He didn't use it when working—it was a nuisance, keeping him from carrying as much as he wanted—but he used it the rest of the time, finding that he walked much more easily with the support. He could walk without it, but not well, and was inclined to trip on uneven ground.

Looking around, he wondered where Rose was. Had she decided not to come after all? It had been she who had suggested that they meet again, but it was 7:05 and there was no sign of her. He wondered if she had been able to find the café. Riverside was a small city, but the streets weren't laid out in a neat, square-like fashion. They curved around in odd directions, circling around and up the area's hills.

He hoped she would show up. It had been five years since he had seen her, but she had never left his thoughts. She had always been there, at the back of his mind, and now that he'd run across her again, he was consumed with curiosity as to how she had gotten all the way out to California, and what she had been doing walking down a dusty California highway in men's clothing, with a rucksack slung over her back.

Just as he was about to give up on her and leave, Rose came out of the kitchen. She had changed into a simple but clean dress and pinned her hair up neatly. A slightly food-stained apron was tied around her waist.

She stopped when she saw him. "Jack! You're here already?" She glanced at the clock. "Oh, my goodness! I completely lost track of the time! I was supposed to get off work ten minutes ago!"

"Work?" He raised an eyebrow at her, looking at her grimy apron.

"I...well, I needed a job, and when I walked down here to find out where this café was, I saw a Help Wanted sign in the window, so I stopped in and asked about the job. They needed another waitress, and I managed to convince them that I knew what I was doing."

"Do you know what you're doing?"

Rose shrugged. "I've been a waitress before, and a bartender. It's close enough."

"A bartender?" Jack shook his head. Rose had done some interesting things over the past five years. He wondered what exactly she had done after she had left Cal and fled to New York. His mind immediately drifted to the things he had done over the ensuing years, but he pushed the thoughts away. There would be time enough to talk about those things over dinner.

A waitress came up to them. "Table for two?" she asked, looking at them with a smile. Jack had come in for dinner on a few occasions, and Rose was one of her co-workers now.

"Right," Jack told her, leaning on his walking stick as he got to his feet. Rose looked at him in puzzlement, as though trying to figure out why he needed it.

When the waitress had settled them at a table and given them their menus, Jack and Rose finally looked at each other, a little nervously. Neither was quite sure of what to say, after all the years apart. Neither had ever expected to see the other again.

Rose perused her menu, trying to avoid Jack's gaze. She looked for the cheapest items on the menu, hoping she could afford dinner.

"I'm paying," Jack told her, watching her scrutinize the menu.

"Oh, no. You don't have to—"

"I insist. You look to be more down on your luck than me."

"I have a job."

"Rose, come on."

Rose looked at him, finally relenting. "All right." She went back to staring at the menu.

"You really need to relax." Jack watched her clutch the menu nervously.

Rose looked up at Jack. "You're a fine one to talk."

He wondered what she was talking about, until he realized he was holding his walking stick in a death grip. Looking a bit sheepish, he let go of it, leaning it against his chair. It immediately clattered to the floor.

Rose giggled, breaking the tension. The waitress returned to take their orders. As she pulled out her pencil, she looked pointedly at Rose's apron.

"That's excellent dinner garb, Mrs. Calvert," she told her, holding out her hand.

Rose looked down, only then realizing that she was still wearing her apron. Quickly, she took it off and handed it to her co-worker. The woman shook her head as she took their orders and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Where's your husband?" Jack asked, looking at her hands and noticing that she wore no ring.

"My—my husband?" Rose stammered, wondering how he had known about her marriage. Then she realized that the waitress had addressed her as Mrs. Calvert.

"You are married, aren't you?"

Rose looked down. "I was, for a short time. He passed away a few months after we were married."

"I'm sorry." Jack looked at her with compassion.

"Are you married?" she asked, wondering if he had a family waiting for him at home.

"I was." He stopped, looking sad.

The waitress returned with their orders, but neither paid much attention to the food.

"Rose—" Jack began.

"Jack—" Rose started at the same time.

They stopped, both looking down at their plates before getting the courage to face each other again. Jack spoke again.

"Rose, what have you been doing all these years? What have you done since...Titanic?"

Rose took a deep breath, wondering where to begin. "I...I tried to wake you up, when we were in the water...but you wouldn't wake up. I wanted to die with you—but I remembered the promise I'd made. So I broke the ice that had frozen our hands together and let you go." She stopped, looking at him. "Jack, I'm so sorry. I almost drowned you! I thought you were dead...you were so cold, and you didn't move..." She put her head in her hands. "I should have checked for a pulse. If only I'd checked..."

"The cold has a way of exhausting your brain—never mind what it does to the rest of your body. You're lucky you had enough sense left to save yourself. I don't know if you could have felt a pulse anyway. You were complaining that you couldn't feel your body, so it's entirely possible that you couldn't have found my pulse even if you'd checked for it."

Rose shook her head. "I should have tried harder to wake you...but I let you go. I let you go and swam over to Officer Wilde. He was dead, but I took the whistle from his mouth and blew on it to let the rescuers know I was alive."

"I'm glad you did." Rose looked at him, astonished. "I'm not glad that you let me go, but I don't blame you for it. If I had been dead, you might have died with me. No, I'm glad that you got the attention of the boat. They'd just picked you up when I resurfaced. If they hadn't come back for you, neither of us would be alive now."

"But still...I shouldn't have let you go. I should have held onto your hand..."

"If you hadn't let me go, I might not have woken up. I think it was the water in my lungs that shocked me back into consciousness."

"Maybe." Rose still felt guilty, but continued with her story. "I didn't know you were alive when the Carpathia came to pick up the survivors. I was in a daze. I didn't know what to do, or what to think. I just climbed up the ladder and found a bench to sit on in steerage. I didn't pay attention to anyone else in the boat."

"I woke up in the ship's hospital. I must have been carried on board. As soon as I could, I slipped out to look for you. I'd seen you in the lifeboat, and knew you were alive, but when I finally found you, you were walking back to first class with Cal."

Rose took a bite of her food, staring at her plate without really seeing it. "I tried to hide from Cal, and from Mother, but Cal was determined to find me if I was alive. I suppose that he knew that I would try to hide in steerage, so that was the first place he looked. He found me and demanded that I go back with him. I didn't want to...but I didn't know what else to do. In the months that followed, I asked myself over and over why I had gone back to first class with him, but I never quite understood why. I still don't."

"What did your mother say when Cal returned with you?"

"She was overjoyed that I had survived. She'd thought, after I refused to get in a lifeboat with her, that I had stayed on the ship with you and had been lost with all the other people who died."

"Did you tell her how you survived?"

Rose shook her head. "No. She would have been appalled. She was so happy to see me, that...I couldn't walk away from her again. I kept remembering the things I'd said to her on Titanic—unkind things. I felt so guilty that I didn't make another attempt to get away, even when she insisted that I go through with the marriage to Cal. Where would she have been without me? She was counting upon me to marry Cal and restore the family fortunes."

"But you did eventually leave."

"Yes. On my wedding day, as I dragged myself up the aisle, I kept asking myself why I was doing it. Why was I marrying a man I couldn't endure? Were the family fortunes that important? When I got near the end of the aisle, I saw Cal looking at me with this little smirk, and I knew that I couldn't go through with it. I turned and ran back down the aisle, and kept going until I was home. I put on my simplest dress and my most practical shoes, stuffed a few things in a small bag, and ran out the servant's entrance. I kept going until I reached the train station, and took the first train out of the city—to New York."

"And fifteen minutes earlier, I'd been there, catching a train to Chicago."

Rose nodded. "If I'd left just a few minutes earlier..." She shook her head. "What did you do before you left for Chicago?"

He hesitated, thinking. "I went back to the hospital. The doctor wasn't happy with me for leaving, but he didn't have to worry. I stayed there the rest of the trip. I had a really bad cough from inhaling all that water, and from being in the cold water so long, but I recovered. I was luckier than some, who developed pneumonia from the experience. I was healthy enough to withstand the aftereffects of the cold and the water."

He pushed his plate back, continuing. "When the Carpathia docked, I looked for you—only to see you getting into a car with your mother and Cal. I didn't see Lovejoy, so I walked through the crowd to see if I could catch your attention, but the car drove away before I could get through all those people. Steerage was the last group to be let off."

"Lovejoy didn't survive," Rose told him. "That was one moment when I almost wished he were there. The reporters surrounded us, shouting, taking pictures, asking questions—and I know he would have fended them off. As it was, we ignored the reporters and just kept going. It took a long time to get out of the crowd, but when we did, there were some cabs waiting for passengers. We went straight to the train station and back to Philadelphia. I was so tired, I didn't really care where we went, so long as I could rest and be left alone. Of course, I didn't get much time alone. Mother fussed over me, the servants fussed over me, and both Mother and Cal immediately insisted that we try to get back to normal. From all appearances, things were normal—but at home, they were anything but." She stopped, remembering the struggle to appear happy, to put on the proper expressions and say the proper words about the sinking. Everyone had been curious, of course, but she was forbidden to say more than necessary. Even then, word of her relationship with Jack had leaked out, infuriating both Cal and Ruth. Ruth had been angry at the whispers of scandal, but Cal had been the worst.

"Why didn't you try to come by my home and talk to me?" she asked, still a little bewildered that he had been alive, and had followed her to Philadelphia, but had made no effort to contact her.

"I did try—and was promptly picked up by the police for vagrancy. I was pretty scruffy, even more than before, and they didn't think I belonged in your neighborhood. I thought about writing you a letter, but I wasn't sure you would get it—or if your mother or Cal would find it and make sure we never met again."

"All that time, you were so close...if only I had known, I would have found a way to escape. But I didn't see any reason to try—not until my wedding day, when I took all of Philadelphia society by surprise when I turned and ran down the aisle. It was quite the scandal. I'm surprised you didn't read about it in the newspaper."

"I wasn't paying much attention to newspapers at the time. I was concentrating upon finding a place to stay, a way to provide food and shelter for myself." He paused, looking back at her. "What did you do once you got to New York?"

Rose looked a little embarrassed. "Well..." She launched into her story, telling him about her first night in New York, and how she had wound up in a house of ill repute.

Jack laughed at that. "How many propositions did you get?"

"Jack!" Rose looked shocked. "Too many to count," she admitted. "I don't know why men kept knocking on my door, unless the desk clerk told them that there was someone new in the hotel that they might like. I left as quickly as I could the next morning, and went to look for a job. I was lucky—I found a job that morning, selling tickets at the Baker Theater, and I found a boarding house that had no problem with single women. Some of the actors from the theater lived there, too. In fact, that was where I first met my husband, Robert."

"He was an actor?"

"Yes, and a good one. I didn't trust him at first, or the theater's lead actress, Alice Cane. We soon became friends, though. She even helped me disguise myself, to keep from being found. I dyed my hair black, wore plain clothes, and even changed my last name."

"What did you change your last name to?"

Rose looked a little sheepish. "Dawson. I didn't think you'd mind."

Jack's mouth hung open in surprise. She'd taken his name? He was surprised at how honored he felt. "I don't mind."

Rose nodded, looking relieved. She'd been afraid he would be angry or upset with her for borrowing his name to hide with. Smiling, she continued her story. "I worked in the theater for about two months before one of the chorus girls ran off to California. They needed her badly for the show, so Robert suggested that I take her place. I was reluctant at first, for fear that I would be found, but Norman—my boss, the theater owner—talked me into it. I made a complete fool out of myself the first time, but fortunately the audience was tolerant and thought it was supposed to be that way. After that, I improved, and took a small role in a Shakespeare play, Othello, in the fall. I was also the understudy for the lead role, which was a good thing, because Alice drank too much and often couldn't be relied upon. A recruiter for a traveling Shakespeare troupe was in the audience one night when I was playing Desdemona, and he recommended me to the director. I auditioned...and won. I left New York City on New Year's Eve, and haven't been back since." She paused, leaving out the part about Cal's attempt to murder her in the alley.

"I spent the next year acting with the Shakespeare troupe, going from city to city. We even stopped in Chicago for a while," she added. "We performed three plays—_As You Like It, Hamlet, _and _King Lear_. We went from one end of the country to the other in that year, finally winding up in San Francisco, where I met up with an old friend, Deborah Hill. She was Deborah Hutchison by then. I stayed with the troupe until the last performance of the year, and then, after spending a few weeks with Deborah and her husband, I went to New Orleans." It wasn't the complete story; she had left out her affair with Richard and the fact that she had killed Marietta, but those weren't things she wanted to talk about.

"In New Orleans, I was unable to find a job, and my money was running out, so finally I became a street performer, working with an elderly Negro that I met one day. He had a banjo, and I had a voice, so we did well enough. People wouldn't have accepted a white woman and a Negro working together, so I dyed my hair black again, put on just enough makeup to darken my skin a little, and pretended to be his octoroon granddaughter. I was appalled at the way Negroes were treated, so I decided that we should do something about it. I started singing songs about freedom and rights and such, and even wrote a few songs of my own. Some other people joined our cause, though it kind of fell apart when we all got arrested. Still, this one establishment, the American, took some of the songs and started having them performed. They were strong on equality, and eventually the hired the man I was working with—Tom DeWitt—to play the banjo for them." She looked at Jack. "Yes, Tom DeWitt is a relative—he's my great uncle. The American didn't offer me a position—they already had more singers than they knew what to do with—but by that time I had met up with Robert again. Some young thugs attacked me in an alley, accusing me of trying to pass for white, and he drove them off before they could harm me. We were both shocked to see each other—we had never expected to wind up in New Orleans, and certainly not at the same time. We talked that night, and then we got together again soon after. He joined Tom and me in our cause, and got more respect than either of us, because he was a white man. I moved into his apartment—as you know, street artists don't make much money, and I was living in a run-down hotel. I...eventually fell in love with him. After Tom got the job with the American, I wondered what I was going to do. I couldn't expect Robert to support me, and then he told me that he was leaving New Orleans. I was angry with myself for trusting him, but then he surprised me again—he suggested that I go with him...to Alaska."

"Alaska?"

"Yes. He'd been there before, and wanted to go back. He said we'd live off the fat of the land. I didn't have anything better to do, so I agreed to accompany him. We left a short time later. We went to California to catch a ship, but we stopped in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, first, to visit with some of Robert's relatives. While we were there, he proposed to me, and I accepted. We were married in San Francisco. Deborah was my bridesmaid." She smiled, remembering. "We had an outdoor wedding, with only a few special people invited. It was so much nicer than my Philadelphia wedding."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you." Rose continued her story. "The next day, we boarded a ship for Juneau, Alaska. I was terrified of being on a ship at first, and spent most of the first day looking for icebergs, even though we were too far south for them. I finally got over my fear of ships, though, and we made it to Alaska in one piece. We bought supplies—I sold Cal's engagement ring to pay for them—and headed north. We got up above the Arctic Circle, walking through part of Canada before we got there to avoid the glaciers, and we staked a gold claim on a river. I don't even remember which river it was. We decided to stay for the winter, built a sod hut, and laid in supplies." Her eyes grew sad. "We should have left when autumn came. In February, there was a brief thaw, and the ice on the river thinned. We'd been occupying ourselves by ice fishing, and our fishing hole froze over—but not as thickly as the rest of the ice. Robert was chopping a new hole in the ice when he stepped back and found the old hole. He fell right through it. I got him out of the water, but he got pneumonia and died a few days later."

"Rose...I'm sorry. It's terrible to lose a spouse."

She nodded sadly. "I know. Thank you." She paused, regaining her composure, before continuing. "When spring came, I buried him on a hillock overlooking the river and our sod hut, covering the grave with stones to keep the wild animals away."

"You buried him alone?"

"There was no one to help me, Jack...and I couldn't go for help. By the time I would have gotten back, the predators would have taken care of him. I had no choice but to bury him myself. I left the next day, and never looked back. I traveled back to Juneau, and took a ship back to California. A few weeks later, I took a train to Los Angeles, where I appeared as an extra in a few moving pictures. I was restless, though, and left after a couple of months. I wandered for a while, and then wound up on the ranch of this elderly woman, Esther Henke. She had an airplane, which we repaired. Then, she taught me to fly."

Jack smiled. "This time, you really were flying."

"I really was...and it was thrilling. But after a while, Esther got sick, and she died soon after. I left the ranch after that, and have been wandering ever since." She couldn't bring herself to speak of her experience in Mexico. That sorrow was still too new, too raw, for her to speak of.

The waitress came up to their table and handed Jack the bill. "We're closing," she told them, looking pointedly at the clock. They had been sitting there for two hours.

After Jack paid the bill, they left the restaurant, walking slowly along the street until they came to a bench. They sat down together, Jack leaning on his walking stick.

Rose finally spoke. "I've talked about myself. What about you? What have you been doing these past five years?" She couldn't quell her curiosity. "Is your...limp from being in the freezing water so long?"

He shook his head. "No. That happened later." He looked at his walking stick, thinking of where to begin. At last, he began his story. "I went to Chicago, and spent a while trying to figure out what to do with myself. I did some art, but I couldn't really make a living from it. I finally took a really boring job in a factory, which lasted about six months before about half of us were laid off and replaced with cheaper workers. There'd been a push to unionize, but I hadn't seen the point until then. But by that time it was too late, and I was out of a job. I was sick of Chicago, anyway, so I took off again. I took a job in Calumet, Michigan, mining copper. The pay was lousy and it was dangerous, so when someone asked me if I wanted to be a part of the drive to unionize, I joined immediately. The bosses were furious over the workers' attempts to improve things, and they made that abundantly clear at Christmas. The miners and their families were holding a Christmas party on the upper floor of a building there, and they had the perfect scheme to break the union—using their children against them. One of the hired thugs poked his head in and told everyone that there was a fire in the building. Someone else said that there wasn't, but a lot of people weren't taking any chances. One man carried his daughter down the stairs, to try to get out of the building, but the thugs held the door closed. Other people who'd seen him leave panicked, and took their children down, too. The thugs still held the doors, laughing, as people piled up against them in a frenzy, trying to escape. Seventy-three children were smothered to death that night."

Rose gasped in horror. "My God! How could they do that? Didn't they have any conscience? Killing children to break the union—why would they do such a thing?"

"Because they could, and because they had all the power. People were outraged by what happened—but it wasn't the first time violence had been used to break up unions, and it wasn't the last. I'm sure it will happen again."

Rose was still shaking her head, unable to understand such callousness. "What—what did you do after that?"

"I left Michigan. I couldn't stay and work for people who could do something like that, no matter how much I needed the money. I sneaked onto a train and wound up in New York City again. I took up my art again, whether I made enough to live on or not. Sometimes I slept in some odd places—like under bridges or on park benches—but it was an honest living. No one was getting hurt from it. While doing a sketch in Central Park one day in June of 1914, I met a man by the name of Anthony Terkel. He was a union organizer in the city, and he wanted to hire me to make posters and flyers to promote his cause. Apparently someone that I had mentioned Michigan to knew him, and he sought me out, figuring that I would be willing to help."

"And were you?"

"Of course. I didn't want what had happened in Michigan to ever happen again, so I was more than willing to do my part. I sketched posters and flyers, and ignored anyone who said I shouldn't be doing so. Unionization isn't a peaceful thing, but I tried to stay out of the worst of the violence. One day, however, I was walking past a factory that was trying to unionize, and I saw a young woman handing out flyers to the workers. One of the foremen saw her, too, and took exception to what she was doing, though she was out on the street and away from the factory itself. He told her to get away from the factory, and when she ignored him, he gave her a shove, sending her flying into a puddle. And...well, you know New York. Puddles are filthy, and full of things you don't want touching you. She got up and smacked him, and he punched her. That was when I stepped in, grabbing him and throwing him into the puddle. The workers who were on their way in thought it was hilarious. He got up to go after us, but a cop had seen me throw him in the puddle, and had seen the woman slap him, so he arrested both of us. The foreman just walked off. Nothing happened to him. At any rate, Mr. Terkel bailed us out of jail. The charge was disturbing the peace, so it didn't cost him too much, though I think he'd been in jail a time or two himself, and from the sound of it he'd probably bailed more than one person out before. I learned the name of the woman I'd assisted—Amelia Terkel, Anthony Terkel's daughter. She was twenty years old at the time, and had been involved in unionizing since the age of sixteen."

"You seem good at rescuing damsels in distress."

"I'm not sure how much distress Amelia was in. I think she might have made that foreman sorry he'd laid hands on her if I hadn't tried to defend her. Her father invited me to dinner to thank me for trying to help her." He laughed at Rose's expression. "I know. Ironic, isn't it? I begin to see a pattern here..."

Rose laughed, agreeing with him. It was nothing short of strange that he'd been invited to another dinner by another well-to-do man for helping a woman. "What happened then?"

Jack ran a hand through his hair, not looking at her. "Ah...we hit it off. Amelia was very lively, full of ideas...in short, she reminded me of you. She didn't look much like you—she had dark hair, and was short, barely five feet tall—but I...took an interest in her. We saw more of each other, and were finally married in June of 1915."

He sighed. "It was a mistake. She reminded me of you, but she wasn't you. I tried to hide that from her, but I think she knew that I thinking of someone else. I tried to forget you—you were lost to me, after all—but I couldn't. I tried to be a good husband to Amelia—I never cheated on her, or mentioned you, and I always tried to support her in her endeavors, even when her father objected to her ideas." He looked down at his walking stick, lost in thought. "She knew that something was missing, and so did I, but I wouldn't abandon her. I'd made my vows, and I stuck to them. 'Til death did us part."

"What happened?"

"Amelia became pregnant in October of 1915. She was thrilled to be having a baby, and things were better between us. I was looking forward to the baby, too, but early in July of 1916, a polio epidemic struck New York. People fled the city, and I suppose we should have, too, but we didn't. Amelia caught the disease, the paralytic type. Her case was milder than some, at least initially—she never had difficulty breathing, and she could use her hands—but when she recovered, she was still completely paralyzed from the waist down. Just as she was recovering, I caught it—and it was much worse than what she had had. It started out mildly enough—like having the flu or something—but within a few days it got much worse. I was having trouble moving, and finally I woke up one morning and couldn't move at all. Even breathing was difficult. Amelia had depended on me to take care of her, but I couldn't. We hadn't gotten her a wheelchair yet, so she had no way of getting around. She couldn't leave the bed." He paused, remembering. "She went into labor that afternoon. She hoped that she might be able to deliver the baby herself—after all, her arms and hands worked—but she had a difficult delivery. She tried not to scream from the pain, but by the next morning she was muffling her screams in a pillow, not wanting to disturb the neighbors." He shook his head. "If she had, she might have lived. I don't know if it was the paralysis, or if it was something else, but she couldn't give birth. She struggled for hours, until she was so weak she could barely push, before giving birth to a stillborn son. I couldn't do anything but lie there and listen. She held the baby, crying and trying to bring him back to life, before she showed him to me. She set him down between us and fainted from the exertion and blood loss, and never woke up. Her father arrived that evening to see how she was doing. He found all three of us lying in the blood-soaked bed, Amelia and the baby dead, and me struggling to stay alive. He got me to a hospital, and it was several weeks before I was able to try to get around again. My first trip out of the hospital was to visit the grave of Amelia and Anthony, Jr. That was what Mr. Terkel had named the baby. I was in a wheelchair, and couldn't get very close to the grave, but I managed to leave some flowers there, anyway. Amelia loved flowers. She even had them growing in a window box in our apartment."

"Jack." Rose looked at him, sympathy in her eyes. "I'm sorry...about Amelia and the baby. It must have been terrible to lose them that way."

He nodded. "It was. And worse yet was the guilt. I hadn't given Amelia the love she deserved. She was a good woman, deserving of better than what I could give her. And yet, I knew that she never blamed me—and that made it all the harder to bear. She was so forgiving. Right before she closed her eyes for the last time, she kissed me, though I couldn't kiss her back, and told me she loved me. Those were her last words."

Rose saw the tears glistening in his eyes, though he tried to hide them. "Jack," she whispered, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

He didn't say anything for a minute, but instead stared at the buildings across the street, his mind far away. Finally, he looked at her again.

"I recovered...slowly. After a while, I started learning to walk again, using leg braces and special shoes. It wasn't easy, but I kept trying. Finally, I got to the point where I could walk without the braces, and could wear regular shoes again. I still used crutches, but I was walking. Eventually, I got rid of the crutches, too, using only a cane or a walking stick, and then got to the point that I could walk without that, though it's difficult. I don't use a walking stick while working because it gets in the way, but the rest of the time I use it. I made this one myself."

Rose leaned over to examine it. "Did you carve it yourself?"

He nodded. "Yes. I got the wood from a broken manzanita branch—I'm sure you've seen those in your travels."

Rose nodded. "Yes. They have beautiful wood. It's a nice walking stick, though it's terrible that you have to use it."

He shrugged. "Sometimes that's what happens." He looked at her. "You should get back to your hotel before they lock you out. That hotel closes everything up at midnight, and it's several blocks away."

"Where do you live?"

"About three blocks from here, down a dirt road a little ways. I can't walk too far, but luckily Riverside isn't that big a town."

"Will you show me where you live?" Rose clamped her mouth shut the second she said the words. She couldn't seem to keep herself from wanting to see him again, no matter how hard she tried.

He looked at her for a moment. "Sure. I'll meet you at the cafe after you get off work, and show you where it is. Just be discreet. This is a small town, and people might whisper. You just got here, so there's no use in ruining your reputation right from the start."

Since she had done more disreputable things than she cared to think about, Rose wasn't overly concerned, but she could see that Jack wanted to protect her reputation. She couldn't blame him, with all the gossip about her after Titanic. Her name had appeared in the society columns several times, and Jack might have read them, or heard the gossip somewhere.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then," she told him, standing and holding out a hand to help him to his feet.

Jack accepted her help, leaning on his walking stick. "Do you need me to walk you to the hotel?"

Rose wanted to spend a few more minutes with him, but didn't want him to have to walk that far. "No, I can make it. I've walked down many a dark street in the past few years, and it hasn't killed me yet. I know how to take care of myself." Impulsively, she reached out and squeezed his hand. "Good night, Jack. I'll see you tomorrow."

With that, she walked away down the street, turning back once to see Jack watching her, a pensive expression on his face.


	73. The Prodigal 4

Chapter Seventy-Three

May 20, 1917

Half an hour after she had gotten off work at the cafe, Rose finally made her way to Jack's house on the edge of town. She had gotten lost once, turned around in the curving streets of Riverside, and had had to stop and ask if anyone knew where Jack lived.

When she finally found the house, she made her way slowly up the dirt path leading up to it. The small building was dilapidated, hardly more than a shack, but she doubted that he could afford more. Work was probably difficult to find, with his crippled leg, and he was lucky to have as much as he had.

She clutched the bag she had brought from the cafe. Jack had insisted upon buying her dinner the night before, so she had decided to return the favor. She had enough money from tips—each waitress collected and kept her own tips—to buy dinner for both of them and bring it with her.

Suddenly nervous, she walked up the two steps to the open porch and knocked on the door. Still clutching the bag, she waited, hearing the thump of Jack's walking stick on the floor and the sound of his footsteps.

He finally opened the door and let her inside. The windows were open, letting the late afternoon light in, and she looked around the small, two-room building. A stove sat in one corner, with a nearby counter running along the wall. Shelves containing food and dishes sat above the counter, and a small table stood in another corner, littered with drawings. An old bench and a chair were lined up beside the table. Through the open door, she could see a cot set up in the other room, a small, rickety looking table beside it. Jack's suitcase still leaned against the wall. There were no other furnishings.

Jack noticed her looking around. "Welcome to my home," he told her, waving his hand around in a sweeping gesture. "A bit run-down, but home."

"It's—a place to live," Rose agreed, admitting that in spite of the dilapidated condition of the house, it was clean, and looked lived in. A watercolor, obviously Jack's work, hung above the table, and a few dishes were scattered on the counter, in need of being washed. The floor was a little dusty, but the windows were clean.

"I...ah...I brought dinner," she told him, setting the bag on the counter. "Maybe you could clear your drawings off the table, and we can sit down and eat?"

"Oh, you didn't need to bring food. I have some here."

"You bought me dinner last night, so I decided to return the favor. I had enough money from tips to do so. Besides, I get a discount because I work there. Since I brought it all the way out here, and even got lost, we might as well eat it."

"You got lost getting here?"

"Yes. I got turned around on these curving streets. Riverside isn't as bad as San Francisco, but it is easy to get lost if you don't know where you're going."

"I know. I did a lot more walking than I planned when I first came here, trying to figure out where I was going." He placed the drawings in his folder, a cloth-covered portfolio, and set it on the bench.

Rose brought some dishes over from the shelves and took the food from the bag. Some of it was cold, but she didn't trust the rusty-looking stove enough to try to heat the food on it. Jack sat down on the bench, leaving the chair for her.

After eating in silence for a moment, Rose asked, "What brought you here, to Riverside? Why didn't you stay in New York?"

Jack shrugged, looking at his plate. "Too many memories. I couldn't get away from reminders of Amelia, and Mr. Terkel was...well, he blamed me for her death, because she died in childbirth. I could have stayed, but he no longer wanted me working for him, and there didn't seem to be any reason to stay. I took a train to California and found a job in Riverside. So, I stayed here."

"Do you like what you do?"

"It's a job. I get to travel some, and make a living."

Involuntarily, Rose glanced around the room. It wasn't much of a living if he was staying in a place like this.

"I know it's run down, but it's good enough," he told her, a little defensively.

"I guess I can't criticize. I spent several months living in a slum hotel while I was working as a street performer. I also spent a winter in a sod hut in Alaska."

"It doesn't sound any worse than this place."

"I think the slum hotel was worse. At least you have some privacy here. I was trying to hide the fact that I was a white woman masquerading as an octoroon without getting caught. I had to scrub off my makeup in an alley before I went home, because they didn't accept Negroes there. They thought it was too good for them." She shook her head. "If that was too good, I would hate to see the hotel accommodations they are permitted to have."

"You've done some interesting things in your life, since you left Cal behind."

"I have. You have, too."

"I've seen far more than I ever wanted to see."

"So have I." Jack looked at her questioningly, but she didn't elaborate.

When the meal was over, Rose washed the dishes and swept the floor, despite Jack's insistence that he could do those things. The room was growing dark as the sun set outside, so Rose lit a candle and sat down at the table with Jack again.

"That's a lovely watercolor," she told him, looking at the picture on the wall.

"Thanks. I painted it in New York, for Amelia. She liked it, too. After she died, I took it with me."

"Your work has improved over the years. It was wonderful before, but this is even better."

"I'm not so sure about that, but thank you."

"Can I see your drawings?" Rose asked impulsively.

"If you like." He picked up the portfolio from the bench and set it in front of her.

Rose pushed it back across the table and sat down next to him, then glanced at him, afraid she was being too forward, but he didn't object.

She thumbed through the folder, looking at images captured over the years. None of his earlier drawings existed any longer, of course. They had gone down with the Titanic, but over the past five years he had more than made up for what had been lost.

There were drawings of the crowd around the pier where the Carpathia had docked, drawings of various people and places in Chicago and Michigan, drawings from his time in New York City. She paused, looking at a drawing of a young woman with sparkling eyes and an animated face.

"Is this...Amelia?" she asked, looking at the portrait. Jack had captured the woman's spirit in the drawing. As he had before, he had seen her, had captured her to the life.

"Yes," he told her, looking at the drawing. He hadn't looked at any of the drawings of his late wife in a long time.

"She was beautiful."

"She was. And full of life. She deserved better."

"Any woman who had you for a husband could count herself lucky."

He shook his head. "She should have married someone who could have loved her as she deserved. I couldn't. I was still thinking of someone else."

"Me." Rose immediately understood.

Jack nodded. "You. I never could forget you."

Rose looked at him. "I never forgot you, either. You were always my...inspiration to go on, even when things were at their worst. When Robert died, I didn't want to go on, but I remembered how you had made me promise to go on...and I got up from the snow, and went back to the sod hut. I lived there for the rest of the winter, and in the spring, after I'd buried Robert, I left and returned south. I never wanted to lose anyone to the cold again, as I had lost him—and you."

She turned to another drawing in the portfolio, another drawing of Amelia. She was wearing her wedding dress, posed artfully in front of a piano. Her smile lit the paper.

"She was so happy that day," Jack told her. "We'd just been married a few hours earlier, and I drew that portrait while we were hiding out from all the guests. Her father was well-known, and there were more guests than I had ever expected to see at my wedding. I didn't know most of them, but Amelia did. After a while, we got tired of socializing and escaped for an hour or so, to a small reception room. We didn't know when we would have to return to the festivities, or we probably would have disappeared altogether."

"When Robert and I were married, we just had a small wedding in a park in San Francisco, and the reception at the Hills' home. The next day, we set sail for Alaska."

"Was it hard, getting on a ship again?"

Rose nodded. "I kept looking for icebergs, even though we were too far south for them. I was terrified that the ship would sink."

"I haven't been on a ship since I left the Carpathia."

"Maybe someday you'll sail again."

"Maybe."

Rose turned to the next picture. Amelia gazed out from the paper, her loose dress barely concealing her swollen midsection.

"I drew that early in July of last year, before she got sick. She was about eight months pregnant at the time, and looking forward to the baby."

"You were looking forward to it, too, weren't you?"

He nodded. "Yes. More than anything. A son or a daughter...but I guess it wasn't meant to be." He showed her the last drawing of Amelia, of her grieving face as she had shown him the stillborn baby. "I drew that one later, after I had recovered from the polio somewhat. For a while, I could hardly move, let alone draw. I drew that one after I had visited their grave."

"Jack..." Rose shook her head, not knowing what to say. "It must have been terrible, to lose them both like that."

"It was. Not a day goes by when I don't think of them...especially the baby. Mr. Terkel named him Anthony, but Amelia and I had always planned to name a boy Jack Dawson, Jr."

Impulsively, Rose reached out and hugged him, pulling him close against her. She was only half-surprised when he returned the gesture, hugging her back. From the moment they had met, they had been comfortable in each other's presence, feeling free to act upon their feelings.

After a moment, they pulled apart, slightly embarrassed at the sudden display of affection. Rose quickly turned to the next drawing—and stopped short when she saw the subject of the drawing.

It was her. She was standing at the railing of one of the upper decks of the Titanic, wearing a dress that was now at the bottom of the sea. Her hair was pinned up neatly, and she had a pensive look on her face. She remembered the moment then. It was the first time they had seen each other, across the distance between the decks, between their differing social classes.

"You remembered," she whispered, looking at the drawing. "That was the moment we first saw each other."

"I made several drawings of you over the years, from memory or imagination. Look at this one." He turned to a drawing of her riding a horse in the surf near the Santa Monica Pier, with the roller coaster in the background.

Rose's eyes went wide. "How did you know?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

"Know what?"

Rose reached into her purse, pulling out the photographs she always carried there. Unwrapping the cloth she kept them in to prevent damage, she took out the photograph of herself on the horse. It was almost a perfect match to the drawing.

Jack just stared at the photograph, stunned. He hadn't known that Rose had struck out on her own until the day before, and yet he had drawn her in almost the exact pose she had taken for the photograph. It was nothing short of amazing.

"When was this picture taken?" he asked, looking at her image. She was dressed in trousers and a shirt, and her face was bright and smiling.

"October of 1915. I was working as an actress in Hollywood, and I finally got the courage to visit Santa Monica Pier. A tourist took the picture."

He shook his head. "That was the same time as I made that drawing. How incredibly strange."

"Did you show any of these drawings to Amelia?"

"The ones of you?"

"Yes."

He shook his head. "No. I never spoke of you to anyone. You were a part of my past, to be kept locked away. This was the only drawing I made of you while Amelia and I were married. I don't know why I drew it—it just seemed to be something I _had_ to do. Maybe this is why."

"I never spoke of you to anyone, either—except Molly Brown, the time I saw her in Denver. I never told Robert about you, nor anyone else. Mother and Cal forbade me to talk about you—so I kept your memory safe within myself. I thought about you often over the years, but I didn't talk about you. I thought you were dead, and I...I suppose I never had the courage to talk about you to anyone who hadn't known you."

"Did you love your husband?"

"Yes, I did—just as I think you loved Amelia. It may not have been the way you thought you should have loved her, but I can tell, from the way you speak of her, that you did love her, even if there was always something missing. I loved Robert—but there were times when I wondered why things had turned out the way they had, why it was that my life had taken the direction that it had. I still wonder, sometimes." She turned to look at him, her face shadowed in the candlelight. "But I made each day count. Every day since I left Philadelphia behind, I tried to make the most of every hour of every day. It wasn't always easy—but I did it."

"I think I did, too, in a different way. I saw a lot of things, and learned a lot about what's wrong with the world. I tried to help things for the better—and maybe I did, a little bit."

"You made Amelia happy."

He shook his head. "She knew that something was missing."

"But she loved you anyway, and I'm willing to bet that if she had lived, you would have stayed with her, had more children, and learned to love her as deeply as she loved you."

"I don't know. Maybe." Jack looked out the window. It was completely dark outside. "It's getting late."

"Yes. I suppose I should be getting back to the hotel." Rose tucked the photograph back into her bag, then turned to look at him again. "I missed you, Jack. I never really stopped missing you."

He looked at her. "I missed you, too." He stopped, as though unsure of what to say. "After the ship sank, and we were in the water, you told me that you loved me."

"I did. I—I still do." She looked away, embarrassed. How could she admit to such a thing, after five years had passed? She had only just seen him again the day before, and they had known each other for only three days aboard the Titanic. She was no longer the naive seventeen-year-old girl she had been. She was a grown woman now, twenty-two years old. Too old for love at first sight.

"I never told you then, but I wish I had. I've loved you all these years."

"Jack...we...we're too old too fall in love so fast. We were so young then..."

"I know...but the passage of time didn't change how I felt about you."

"It didn't change things for me, either," Rose admitted. "But...it's been so long...I don't know where to go from here."

Jack looked at the darkness outside, then back at her. "In a month, my boss wants me to transfer to Los Angeles to work. It'll be an easier job, one that won't require so much walking. If things should...work out between us...perhaps we could both go to Los Angeles. That is, if you want to."

"I lived in Los Angeles for a time. I liked it there well enough, and I suppose I could find a job as easily there as here. If things should work out, I will go with you. If not...we'll think about that when the time comes."

Jack nodded. "Yes...we'll think about it then."

Rose stood to leave, knowing that she had to return to the hotel before it was closed up for the night. Jack pulled himself up from the bench, leaning on his walking stick.

"Well...good night, Rose," he told her.

"Good night, Jack." She started for the door, but stopped at the sound of his voice.

"Rose..."

She turned, letting him pull her into his arms. The walking stick clattered to the floor, unnoticed, as they shared their first kiss in more than five years.


	74. The Prodigal 5

Chapter Seventy-Four

June 20, 1917

Over the month that followed, Jack and Rose saw each other every day. Some evenings, if he worked late, Jack would meet Rose at the cafe when her shift ended, and they would eat dinner together, talking about what had happened that day and anything else that came to mind. Other evenings, Rose would walk out to Jack's house, bringing dinner with her, and they would sit together at the table or sit on the front step. When they discovered that they both had Sundays off, they took to spending the day together, walking slowly around the town or meeting in the park, spending hours just enjoying being together. Jack showed Rose some of the city's sights, including the magnificent architecture of the Mission Inn, the grounds of the Sherman Indian School, which had been moved to Riverside from Perris in the late 1890's, and the orange groves around the city, the pride and joy of the growing California town.

On the day before Jack was to leave for Los Angeles, he and Rose borrowed a wagon and horses from one of Jack's neighbors and drove up to Mount Rubidoux. There weren't many people around on the warm summer day, with most people being at work and others being discouraged by the heat and dryness of early summer. Since 1909, Mount Rubidoux had been the site of an annual Easter Sunrise Service, the tradition first started by Frank Miller, one of Riverside's pioneers and the owner of the Mission Inn. Jack had attended the service himself that year, riding along with the neighbors he had borrowed the wagon from.

Rose had taken the day off from work to go with him. She still hadn't decided whether or not she would go with him to Los Angeles, though the question was on her mind constantly.

When they reached the base of the hill, Jack unhitched the horses, led them to a small spring to drink, and tied them to a low tree branch where there was enough grass to last a few hours. He and Rose started hiking slowly up the hill.

Both were silent, lost in thought, as they slowly made their way uphill. Leaning heavily on his walking stick, he walked beside Rose, his mind going over whether he should ask her again to go with him. He had watched her over the past month, observing how she was settling into her life in the small city. She had a good job, and had made several friends. He didn't know if it would be fair to ask her to leave this place behind and head for yet another new home. For that matter, he wasn't sure that she would want to make a life with him. What did he have to offer her, really? He had more money than when they had met on the Titanic so long ago, but he had changed since then. He had seen a lot more of life, and beyond that, he was crippled now. Not badly, but enough that he would always have some difficulty, and it had been long enough that he doubted that he would ever get any better. Would she really want to go away with him, knowing how things were?

Halfway up, they stopped to rest. It wasn't a horribly long walk for Rose, who had walked thousands of miles in the past few years, but the climb was difficult for Jack, with his bad leg. Finding a low boulder in the shade of some tall brush, they sat down together, each still lost in their own thoughts.

Rose didn't know what to decide. She had found peace for the first time in a long time in this place, and she had a steady job and a few friends. The sense of impending doom that had hung over her like a cloud for so long had eased, and she seldom thought about the consequences of her presence to others. She was content.

But she didn't want to part from Jack. She had mourned him for years, though she had gone on with her life, and she had never stopped loving him. Now that they were together again, she loved him more than ever, but she had found peace and contentment, and she wasn't sure that she wanted to leave the new life that she had established and go to yet another place. She loved him, but she didn't know what she wanted to do. She had to make a decision soon, though. He was leaving tomorrow, and if she didn't go with him, there was no telling when, or if, she would see him again. She wished that he could stay in Riverside, but knew that it was impossible. He had to go to Los Angeles and take the easier job offered to him. The work he was doing now was too hard.

After about fifteen minutes, they resumed their climb. Rose tucked her canteen back into her bag and stood, then waited while Jack pulled himself to his feet with the help of his walking stick. They hadn't gone three feet when he stumbled over a rock with his bad leg and pitched forward into the dust.

"Goddammit!" he swore, then looked at Rose apologetically.

She reached out a hand to help him to his feet. "I've heard worse."

"I hate it when this happens," he complained, taking her hand and letting her help him up.

"Does it happen often?"

"Only when there's something to trip over."

Rose handed him his walking stick. "Just take it easy, all right? Don't go falling over any cliffs."

"I'll do my best."

Hand in hand this time, they made their way to the top of the hill. Jack showed Rose the cross atop the hill before they found a shady spot and sat down to eat the picnic lunch they had brought with them.

It was pleasant in the shade of the sycamore tree they had found. The day, while warm, was not horribly hot, as it would be later in the season, and they leaned back against the tree trunk, admiring the view from this altitude and talking and laughing comfortably with each other. The camaraderie that they had known from the moment they first met was as strong as ever.

When they had finished eating, Rose wrapped up the scraps and tucked them back into her bag. She leaned against the tree trunk in contentment until Jack spoke up.

"My train leaves at seven o'clock tomorrow morning," he told her, twirling a blade of grass in his fingers.

"So early?"

"It won't take long to get to Los Angeles, and my employer has paid for my train ticket there."

"I see."

Jack looked at her. "I'll understand if you don't want to come with me. You have your life here. You're happy."

"I'm content, yes."

She fell silent, thinking. Yes, she was content, but a great part of the peace she had found, she realized, was as a result of finding Jack again. She had mourned for him for five years, thinking him dead, and now that they had found each other again, she couldn't bring herself to let him walk out of her life once more. She would miss the friends she had made in Riverside, but she had walked away from many friends in her life, and it was always possible that she would see them again. Riverside and Los Angeles were only some seventy miles apart, not too great a distance by train or automobile, and she could find another job. If she went to Los Angeles, she would also have the opportunity to try film acting once again.

"I'm coming with you," she told him, making the decision right then and there.

Jack's eyes lit up, but he still felt the need to ask her about what she thought she was getting into.

"Are you sure, Rose? Are you sure you can leave your friends and your work?"

"I'm sure. Los Angeles and Riverside aren't that far apart, and if I go to Los Angeles I can try to get work in the moving pictures again. I could probably find a job as easily in Los Angeles as in Riverside, anyway."

"You've established yourself here..."

"Jack, I lost you five years ago. A part of me always missed you, no matter how much time had passed or how many things had happened. I never completely stopped mourning your loss. And now...now that we've found each other again, I can't just let you walk out of my life as though nothing had happened, without knowing when, or if, I'll ever see you again." She stopped, moving away from the tree and scooting over to face him. Embracing him, she whispered, "I love you, Jack. I've loved you since the night we met, when you talked me out of jumping off the Titanic."

She lifted her head, looking into his deep blue eyes, waiting for a response. Jack didn't say a word. He just pulled her into his arms and kissed her as though he would never stop.

On their way back through town, Jack stopped to let Rose off at her hotel. To his surprise, she refused to stay there.

"We need to get an early start tomorrow, and that will be easier if I check out of the hotel now and go with you. Just wait here while I get my things."

"People will talk."

"So? We're leaving. Who cares what they say?" Now that she had made up her mind to go with him, she was no longer concerned about her reputation in Riverside. Those who were truly her friends would not condemn her for her decision, and others would undoubtedly have turned their backs on her if they had truly known her anyway.

Jack couldn't help but smile. This was the Rose he remembered, unconcerned about what other people thought if she believed that what she was doing was right. She had defied society to be with him on the Titanic, and she would do the same now.

"All right. Go get your things. You'll want to stop by the café, too, so that you can give notice—that is, unless you plan to travel back and forth between Los Angeles and Riverside every day."

"I think that would be a bit too far to travel. No, I'll give notice here, and find a new job in Los Angeles." She gave him a quick kiss. "I'll be down in a few minutes."

After Rose had checked out of the hotel and given notice at the café, she rode with Jack to his house, which a new renter would soon be occupying. Since Jack looked tired, she dropped him off at the house and drove the wagon back to the neighbors' home herself.

Always mindful that the animals needed to be cared for, Rose unhitched the horses, brushed them down, and fed them before leaving, much to the surprise of their owners, who hadn't expected her to know how to drive a wagon, much less take care of the horses. Rose just smiled as she walked back toward Jack's house. She had learned a lot of useful skills in her years of wandering.

By the time she got back, Jack had already packed most of his belongings. He didn't have much, just a few clothes, personal belongings, and some household goods. The furniture had come with the house and would be left behind.

Rose greeted him with a smile and a kiss, then took over the task of making dinner while Jack walked around, checking to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. Everything was packed, except for the few items they were using tonight and early in the morning. They would have to be up early in order to get to the train on time.

They ate dinner on the front step, enjoying the cool evening breeze and each other's company. After they had washed and packed the few dishes, they sat down again together, talking quietly. There was still enough light to see by, so Jack brought out his portfolio and leaned back against the step, sketching Rose.

She looked peaceful and content in the last light of the day, relaxed after the work of getting ready to leave. By the time it had grown dark, he had finished the drawing and tucked it into the portfolio, to be taken along with the rest of their belongings.

"Rose," he called softly.

She looked up, smiling at him. "Yes?"

"You should make yourself a place to sleep. We need to be up early. I'd offer you the cot, but it's hard to get up and down from the floor."

Rose hesitated a moment, an idea that had been on her mind suddenly coming to the forefront. Taking a deep breath, she told him, "I want to stay with you tonight."

For a moment, Jack looked at her in confusion, but quickly realized what she meant when she moved to sit beside him, kissing him and toying with the buttons on his shirt.

He paused, not knowing quite how to respond. There had been no woman for him since Amelia had died. He had no way of knowing that Rose was just as nervous. She had not had a lover since Robert's death over two years earlier, and she firmly pushed the thought of the bandits in the Mexican desert from her mind.

At last, they embraced, their kiss deepening. After a moment, they broke apart and stood, making their way into the house and shutting the door behind them.


	75. The Prodigal 6

Chapter Seventy-Five

Los Angeles, California

August 15, 1917

The first couple of months after Jack and Rose moved to Los Angeles were peaceful ones. Jack soon settled into his new office job, finding it much easier than the warehouse job he had done before. After about a week, Rose found another waitressing job, using her references from San Diego, Temecula, and Riverside. She signed back on with one of the casting agencies, working as an extra. She still hoped to win a larger role in a moving picture, but for the time being she was satisfied with being an extra.

Rose and Jack moved into a small apartment on the outskirts of town. It would have been too much for either of them to afford alone, but together they were able to pay the rent and buy necessities. They didn't have much money, but neither worried about it.

Rose had almost managed to push her worries and fears out of her mind. She lived happily with Jack, forgetting the nagging feeling that she was cursed that had so often hounded her before. She was content, at peace with herself, and Jack, too, was happier than he had been in a long time.

This changed when Rose realized that she was often getting sick in the mornings. It had happened on and off since early July, but infrequently enough that she had attributed it to an upset stomach, brought on by some illness or some food that had disagreed with her.

When the morning sickness became more frequent, Rose suddenly found herself looking back to her experience over five years earlier, when she had become pregnant and hadn't realized it until she had miscarried. She had learned a lot since then, and was far more familiar with the symptoms of pregnancy. Thinking back, she realized that she hadn't menstruated since early in June, before she had left Riverside.

At first, she couldn't understand how it had happened. She and Jack had always used some form of contraceptive—except, she remembered, that first night together, the night before they had come to Los Angeles. Doing some quick calculations, she counted the days and knew that it had happened that night.

She was pregnant. Rose didn't know whether to rejoice or weep. She had wanted a child for so long, but she wasn't married, and she wasn't sure if Jack wanted to marry her. He would, of course—he would see it as his duty—and he would provide for the child if she asked him to.

Or he would try. She knew Jack well enough to know that he would never back away from something so important, and that he would love the child, and her, but how would he provide for them? They were barely making ends meet as it was. She didn't know if she would still be able to work once her pregnancy became visible, and even if she was able to continue, she would still be unable to work for a while when she had the baby.

Rose buried her head in her hands. She had saved a little extra money from her film work, but it wasn't much. If she had had success in film, there would be no problem in providing for the baby, but she hadn't yet gotten far in the industry, and any success she might have would have to wait.

Jack would help, of course, but work was hard for him to find, with his crippled leg, and she didn't know if he would be able to find a higher paying job or not. Could she really put such a burden on him?

She didn't need to worry about it quite yet, she thought. Maybe she wasn't pregnant at all. Maybe she really did have some stomach illness, and that was all that was happening. There was a low-cost medical clinic nearby. She would go there after work and find out for certain what was going on.

Even before she visited the doctor, Rose knew what he would find. She was most definitely pregnant. Approximately two months along, he told her. Rose just nodded. She had already known, but she had needed a definite answer.

Rose was quiet at dinner that night. She couldn't bring herself to tell Jack that she was with child. She couldn't put that burden on him.

But he would find out eventually. She couldn't hide it forever. Even if she managed to hide her morning sickness from him, she wouldn't be able to hide her swelling belly. It didn't show yet, but it would soon.

Rose felt a wave of sorrow wash over her as she listened to him talk. His face was bright as he told her about his day at work, about the drawing he had sold to a tourist during his lunch break, but she hardly heard a word. She offered the occasional polite comment, but her mind was elsewhere.

What was she going to do? She couldn't burden Jack with this child, but she couldn't give it up, either. She had wanted a baby for years, and she wouldn't give this one up, though she knew that there were ways that she could have discreetly gotten rid of it, or people who would have taken the child once it was born. But she wanted the baby, and was unwilling to give it up, no matter what she had to sacrifice.

Rose stood beside the bed, looking at Jack. He was sleeping peacefully, his face visible in the moonlight streaming through the window.

It was past midnight, but she hadn't slept. Her mind had been in turmoil, trying to decide what to do. She had only come to a decision a half hour earlier.

Placing one hand on her stomach, Rose reached down and touched Jack's face gently with the other. She was dressed, her suitcase packed and set in the kitchen. She was familiar with the trains in Los Angeles from the first time she had lived there. One was leaving, bound for San Francisco, in forty-five minutes.

Her eyes filled with tears as she looked down at his sleeping form. What would he think when he awoke to find her gone? She had left a brief note, telling him only that she was leaving. She hadn't said why.

She would go to San Francisco and stay with Deborah until the baby was born. After that, she would find some kind of work to support herself and the child. Jack need never know where she had gone, or why she had left.

She should have known from the start that things wouldn't work out. Nothing had ever worked out for her, and there was no reason why this time should have been any different. Jack would eventually forget about her and go on with his life, and she would bear and raise her child, and try to forget about the baby's father.

Jack stirred under her touch, and she drew back, afraid that she had awakened him. What would she do if he awoke and found her ready to leave? She looked down at him, already knowing the answer. She would stay, stay and try to make a life for all three of them. But it wouldn't work, and she already knew it.

Jack turned over in his sleep, settling beneath the blanket. He hadn't woken up. Disappointed deep inside, but knowing that it was for the best, Rose turned and left the room.

In the kitchen, she picked up her suitcase and slipped quietly out the apartment door, walking silently down to the street. Looking back once, she turned and headed for the train station.


	76. The Prodigal 7

Chapter Seventy-Six

August 16, 1917

Jack awoke to the bright summer sunlight shining through the small window of the bedroom. Yawning, he sat up, reaching out to Rose as he did every morning.

She wasn't there.

Puzzled, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and picked up his walking stick, pulling himself to his feet. He wondered vaguely where she was, but dismissed the thought, assuming that she had gotten up early.

Half an hour later, he finished dressing and made his way into the kitchen. There was no sign of Rose. He frowned, wondering if she had been asked to work early or had an early filming session. As he walked toward the icebox to find something to eat, he saw the note on the table.

Reaching for it, he read it quickly, his face paling slightly at the words.

_Dear Jack,  
I can't stay. I'm sorry. Things aren't going to work out as I hoped they would. I love you, I truly do, but this is for the best for both of us. Please try to understand. I'll love you always, but I have to leave.  
With all my love,  
Rose_  
The paper was spotted with water droplets, as though she had been crying when she wrote it. He could see where she had written and erased her words repeatedly, trying to find the best way to tell him she was leaving. He tried to read the faint outlines of the erased words, but they were obscured by what she had finally written.

Still clutching the note, he sank down into a chair. What did she mean, things weren't going to work out? Everything had seemed fine to him. Had there been something going on that he hadn't realized?

He hoped not. He and Rose had always been very open with each other. What had made her run this time?

Try as he might, Jack couldn't think of the reason. Rose had seemed happy, working at her waitressing job and taking extra jobs in moving pictures. Their apartment wasn't fancy, but it was a roof over their heads, and according to her, she had lived in much more rundown places.

It was only the past three days that things had changed somewhat. Rose had been quiet, lost in thought. Several times she had shaken her head, as though trying to convince herself that something wasn't true, or trying to put a thought from her mind. She had been almost silent the evening before, picking at her dinner and cleaning the kitchen in silence. Later, when they had made love, she had clung to him, reacting with energy and passion as though it would be the last time.

Jack cursed to himself and tossed the paper on the table. She had been saying good-bye, and he hadn't realized it in the slightest. Now she was gone, out of his life again as though she had never been there.

A quick perusal of the apartment told him that she had taken all of her belongings with her. She wasn't planning on coming back.

Where could she have gone? He sat back down, trying to think. Was she someplace in Los Angeles, or had she left for another city? Why had she gone at all, and without a word to him?

Knowing that he was going to be late for work, and not caring, Jack limped out of the apartment and down the stairs. His first stop was the landlord's apartment on the first floor. If Rose had been planning on leaving, she might have mentioned something to him.

Knocking on the door, he waited while the man stomped over to the door and threw it open.

"Yeah? What do you want?"

"Have you seen Rose Calvert last night or this morning? I woke up this morning and she was gone, along with everything she owns. She left a note, but no clue as to where she was going or why."

The landlord was no help. Scratching his head, he looked at Jack. "I haven't seen her, Mr. Dawson. You say she left some time during the night?"

"Or early this morning. I woke up and she was gone. She left a note and all of her things are gone."

"I really don't know what to tell you. Have you asked her boss if she came to work?"

"Not yet. That's my next stop."

"Good luck."

The next two stops, at the restaurant Rose waitressed at and the studio she was currently working on a moving picture for, yielded nothing. Her boss at the restaurant was furious, wanting to know why she hadn't shown up for work.

"She was supposed to be in at 6:30 this morning. Where is she?"

"I don't know. She just up and left. She didn't inform you of where she was going either, I take it?"

"No. I've made a lot of concessions for her, with her moving pictures work and everything, but she just never showed up. Never said a word, either. She was supposed to work until eight, and then take a couple of hours for her filming. The studio is down the street."

"I'm checking there next."

"Well, if you find her, tell her that she'd better hope her acting career gets off the ground pretty fast, because I've had enough of her. I can never count on her to be here at a particular time, and this is the last straw. She's fired."

Jack sighed. "Yes, sir. I'll tell her when I find her."

And he would find her, he promised himself. He had lived without her for too long to just let her go without an explanation. If she truly wanted to leave him, he would let her go, but he wanted to know why.

Upon reaching the movie studio down the street, he was pointed in the direction of the set. The director was easy to find, striding around and shouting at everyone as people scurried to do his bidding.

Jack approached him tentatively. "Excuse me, sir."

The director turned to look at him. "You'd better have a damned good reason for interrupting me like this."

Jack couldn't see that he was doing much besides yelling, but he hurried to say his piece anyway. "I'm looking for Rose Calvert. She's one of the extras in your film..."

"I haven't seen her. Little slut almost ruined this scene. I told everyone what their places were, and she just didn't show up. I had to call the agency and get someone in her place. This is going to delay shooting for an hour and a half." The director dismissed him, turning to shout at a cameraman.

Jack walked off. No one had seen her. His walking stick thumping along the ground, he walked as quickly as he could in the direction of his office, realizing that it was almost mid-morning. Much as he was loathe to give up his search, Rose would have to wait.

"Dawson, you're late," his boss growled as soon as he walked in the door.

"I'm sorry, sir. An emergency came up. I got here as quickly as I could." He glanced at the clock, confirming that he should have been at work two hours earlier. "I can work late, if you want."

"The office closes at five. You know that."

"I would lock up behind me."

"No. Just work as you usually do. I'm docking you two hours' pay."

"Yes, sir." Leaning on his walking stick, Jack made his way to his table in a back room and began his work.

He was distracted throughout the day. Nothing, not even drawing flyers, could keep his attention.

Where was Rose? Was she all right? Why had she left? It was this question that weighed the most heavily on his mind. She knew her way around and could take care of herself, but he was still at a loss as to why she had left at all. She had seemed happy, but maybe it was all an act.

Was it because of the fact that he was crippled? He had thought that she had accepted him the way he was, but had it been more than she could deal with? He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself; his bad leg only impeded him somewhat, but he knew how many people felt about those who were crippled. He hadn't thought Rose to be like them, but maybe he had been wrong.

But if she had felt so uncomfortable with him as he was, why had she left Riverside with him in the first place? She could have stayed and continued to work. She had made friends there, had found a good job. If she had been so uncomfortable with him, why had she come to Los Angeles with him?

Jack shook his head. He didn't know what to think.

After work, he went straight back to the apartment, hoping that by some miracle Rose had come back, or that one of the neighbors had seen her when she left.

Before he returned to his own apartment, he went from door to door, asking if anyone had seen Rose. No one had any idea where she had gone until he spoke to the woman in the very last apartment in the building.

Discouraged, he knocked on her door. If she hadn't seen Rose, he had no idea where to look. He supposed his next stop would be the train station, but with so many people coming and going, what was the likelihood that anyone would remember her—if she had even taken a train? She could as easily have hitched a ride out of town in a motorcar or wagon, taken off on a boat, or simply walked away. If she had left any way but by train, it was unlikely that he would ever find her.

The resident of the last apartment, Agnes Carlyle, a woman in her early seventies, opened the door and gave him a severe look. She had disapproved of the living arrangement between Rose and him since the day they had moved in, shocked that they were living together without the benefit of marriage. Worse yet, in her opinion, was the fact that Rose was _Mrs_. Calvert, never stopping to consider that something might have happened to Mr. Calvert. As far as she was concerned, Rose was an immoral hussy who had left her lawful husband to live in sin with a cripple. Jack would have been more annoyed but for the fact that the old woman had little of interest in her life, and the opportunity to gossip about himself and Rose was the most excitement she'd had in a long time.

"Miss Carlyle, have you seen Rose anywhere? I woke up this morning and she was gone."

"Ah, yes. I saw her late last night. It's hard to sleep at my age, you know, with these aching joints, so I was looking out my window. She tiptoed out of the building and headed down the street with a suitcase."

"Do you know where she went?"

Miss Carlyle shook her head. "No. She went that way." She pointed down the street.

That was the direction of the train station. Maybe she had taken a train out of town. Jack started to thank her, but the woman went on.

"I'm guessing she got tired of your little arrangement and went back to her husband, God forgive her for leaving him in the first place." She smirked, pleased at her theory.

Jack knew Rose hadn't gone back to her husband—he was several years dead—but Miss Carlyle's words gave him another idea. Who had Rose spoken of as the person she could always turn to when things got rough? He thought for a moment, trying to remember the name. Deborah Hutchison. Yes, that was it. Deborah Hutchison in San Francisco. If anyone would know where Rose had gone, it would be her.

"Thank you, Miss Carlyle. You've helped me a great deal." He turned to walk away, ignoring the elderly woman's affronted look. Before she closed the door, he turned with one last parting shot. "By the way, Miss Carlyle, Rose is a widow." He tipped his hat to her and walked off, heading downstairs.

It was too late in the day to send a telegram. The telegraph office in town had closed at six, but he would be there as soon as it opened at seven the next morning. He didn't know Deborah Hutchison's address, but Rose had said she was from a prominent San Francisco family. Hopefully, giving her name would be enough to find her.

The next morning, Jack sent a telegram to Deborah Hutchison of San Francisco.

MY NAME IS JACK DAWSON. STOP. I'M A FRIEND OF ROSE'S. STOP. HAVE YOU SEEN HER? STOP. ROSE DISAPPEARED NIGHT BEFORE LAST. STOP. IF ANY INFORMATION, PLEASE CONTACT JACK DAWSON AT ALLENBAUGH ASSOCIATION IN LOS ANGELES. STOP.

JACK DAWSON

He waited throughout the day, hoping that the telegram had reached her, hoping that she had some idea of where Rose was. The wait seemed interminable. Every time someone walked past his door, he hoped that a telegram had arrived.

Finally, just before five o'clock, another clerk brought him a message. Thanking him quickly, Jack read it.

MR. DAWSON, ROSE IS HERE IN SAN FRANCISCO. STOP. COME AND TALK SOME SENSE INTO HER. STOP. SHE NEEDS TO STOP RUNNING. STOP.

DEBORAH HUTCHISON


	77. The Prodigal 8

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Rose arrived in San Francisco late in the afternoon of August 16, 1917. The train had made several stops in coastal cities along the way, giving her ample time to reflect on what she had done.

She still couldn't quite believe that she had left Jack. She had mourned him for years, and had been shocked and overjoyed when she found that he was alive. He was alive, and they were together—she had never thought any further than that. As was so often the case, she hadn't thought about the future, about the consequences of her actions, until it was too late. If she had thought about the potential consequences, she would never have seduced Jack that last night in Riverside, when no forms of contraception were available and she was vulnerable to pregnancy. She would have waited until a better time. But she hadn't thought about it, any more than she had considered the consequences the night they had come together in the back seat of the Renault.

As she left the train station, suitcase in hand, she shook her head. She might have conceived that night, too—but she could never be sure. It didn't matter now, anyway. She had lost that baby, over five years ago now, and whether the child's father had been Jack or Cal was of no consequence. She knew who this baby's father was, and wished desperately that she could have stayed with him. But it was best that she hadn't.

Forty-five minutes later, Rose arrived at Deborah's front door. The walk was long and steep, but no worse than other journeys she had undertaken over the years. She hadn't done so much walking recently—her waitressing job in Los Angeles had been only a few blocks from the apartment she had shared with Jack, and the movie studio only a few blocks beyond that—but she was still strong and fit from the long miles she had walked in her wanderings.

The maid who answered the door immediately recognized Rose from her previous stays with the Hutchisons. Ushering her inside, she hurried to find Deborah.

Rose sat on a chair in the foyer, waiting. The brilliant summer sunlight streamed through the large windows of the house, and from a distant room she could hear a child giggling. _Grace_, she thought, realizing that Deborah's daughter was almost three years old now. She wondered if her friend had any more children. They hadn't heard from each other since Rose had left for Los Angeles in 1915.

"Rosie!" Deborah wheeled herself into the foyer, her ever present little dog running along beside the wheelchair.

Rose jumped up, running to Deborah. "Debbie! It's so good to see you."

The two friends embraced, Rose leaning over to hug Deborah in her wheelchair, while the dog circled her, sniffing and yapping suspiciously.

"How long has it been, Rosie? Two years?"

"Two years," Rose agreed, stepping back and looking at her. "You're looking well."

"Yes. I am well, and so is Grace."

"She'll be three years old next month, won't she?"

"Yes." Deborah sighed. "The time goes by so quickly."

"It does." Rose reached down to pat the dog, who had decided to accept her. It wagged its tail and shook itself before leaping into Deborah's lap.

"What brings you to San Francisco this time, Rosie?" Deborah asked, turning her wheelchair to head toward the parlor.

Rose hesitated. How would Deborah react to the news that she was pregnant and had left the baby's father? Coming to San Francisco had seemed like a good idea at first, but now Rose had to wonder what Deborah would think of her predicament.

Shrugging, she answered, "I've come to see you."

They had reached the parlor. Deborah went in first, inviting Rose to follow her. Rose sat down on one of the horsehair chairs, while Deborah wheeled herself around the face her. A moment later, Grace came running in, looking curiously at Rose. Deborah pushed the dog down and picked up her daughter, setting her securely in her lap.

"Grace, this is Mrs. Calvert," she introduced. "She's a good friend of mine. Do you remember her?"

Grace screwed up her face, thinking. "No," she said at last, shaking her head.

"You were pretty little the last time she was here. Can you say hello?"

"Hello, Mrs. Calvert," Grace dutifully replied.

"Hello, Grace. You've certainly gotten big."

Grace beamed at the praise. "Mama says I'm almost three."

"You're growing up so fast," Deborah told her. "What happened to my baby?"

"I'm a big girl, Mama," Grace told her, indignant at being reminded that she was once a baby.

"Yes, Grace, you are. Could you go to the kitchen and see what Mrs. Bloomfield is making for dinner?"

"Okay." Grace climbed down from her mother's lap and raced toward the kitchen, the little dog chasing after her.

"She certainly is full of energy," Rose remarked, watching the child run.

"More than enough energy, sometimes. It's hard to believe we were once that little."

"It has been a long time," Rose admitted. "Is she still your only child?"

"Yes. Will and I decided to wait before having another, since giving birth is so dangerous for me. Maybe when he gets back, though..." Her voice trailed off wistfully.

"Where is Will?" Rose asked, wondering if he was away on business. The times that she had been there before, he had always been home by this time of day.

"He's in Europe," Deborah told her sadly, "fighting in that stupid war."

"He volunteered?"

Deborah shook her head. "No. He didn't want to leave Grace and me alone. He was drafted. He tried to get out of it, because I'm in a wheelchair and Grace is so young, but they took one look at how much money he had and said that I could hire all the help I needed while he was gone." She sighed. "I just hope he comes back. It's awful, Rosie. Mother got arrested for trying to undermine the war effort."

"Your mother got arrested?" Rose couldn't imagine Belinda Hill in jail.

"Yes. Father had to bail her out. She's still trying to impair the war endeavor, but she's more discreet about it now."

"And what about you? Do you agree with her?"

Deborah looked at Rose. "I'm helping her, Rosie. I want my husband back in one piece. Grace misses her Daddy. Are you going to turn me in?"

"No, Debbie. I would never turn you in for doing what is right. Besides, isn't it your right as an American citizen to speak out if you so choose?"

"Not in times of war, apparently."

Rose remembered Esther's words on war and revolution, about how it was only an opportunity for the oppressees to become the oppressors. She remembered another man named Will, Esther's grandson, William "Guillermo" Murphy, a victim of another fruitless war. She had almost become a victim herself, but she had managed to survive, as she always had. It was over and done with now, and Esther's property had no doubt been sold off to the highest bidder, with no one to inherit it.

Looking at Deborah's sad face, Rose was suddenly glad that Jack was crippled. Even if he was drafted, he would never pass the physical. Not with his crippled leg, severe limp, and penchant for tripping on uneven ground. He would never be sent to war. Although Rose had left him behind, she couldn't help but feel relief that he would never be put in such a dangerous position.

"Rosie." Deborah's voice brought her back to the present. "Why are you here in San Francisco?"

"To visit you," Rose evaded, trying to think of a way to answer the question. "Why does every visit have to have a reason?"

"Rosie, everything you do has a reason."

"Do you really think me that mercenary, that I would only come to see you because I wanted something?" Hurt crept into her voice.

"No, Rosie, I don't. I know you better than that. You've never been one to use people. But I do know that you have spent the last few years running away, from your past, from your losses, from anything that troubles you. You've come here, and then you've run again, whether it was to New Orleans, or Alaska, or Hollywood, you're always running from something. What are you running from this time?"

"What makes you think I'm running?" Rose retorted, her fingers digging into the stiff arms of her chair.

"This is just a social visit, then?"

Rose turned away from Deborah's assessing look. She couldn't hide her reasons for coming forever.

After a moment of silence, she finally spoke. "I'm pregnant, Debbie. I didn't know where else to go."

"What about the baby's father? Where is he?"

"He's still in Los Angeles."

"Does he know about the baby?"

"No."

"Why didn't you tell him? Is he that low of a person that he would have set you aside because of the baby?"

Rose looked up. Jack, set her aside? She shook her head.

"No, he wouldn't have set me aside. He's a good man."

"Then why did you leave?"

"I can't put that kind of burden on him." At Deborah's skeptical look, she explained, "He's crippled, Deborah. He was in New York City during the polio epidemic last year and caught it. He survived, of course, but his left leg is still crippled. I just couldn't put that burden on him. He has enough troubles already. I won't saddle him with a child. It's my fault I'm pregnant, anyway. I seduced him, never considering that there was no way, that night, to prevent a baby from starting. He doesn't need to know."

Deborah turned as Grace walked back into the room, munching on a cookie. "Mrs. Bloomfield's making ham, Mama," she announced, holding out her arms to be picked up.

Deborah picked the little girl up and set her back in her lap. "Rosie, do you think a crippled person can't be a good parent?"

"That's not what I said, Debbie. I know that a crippled person can be a good parent—you're obviously a good mother to Grace. But your situation is different. The problem with telling Jack about the baby is that he has difficulty finding work. We were living together in Los Angeles, and barely making ends meet with both of us working. How can I expect him to support a child? The way things are for you is different. You have plenty of money. You don't need to worry about being able to feed, clothe, and shelter your child. Jack would."

"And so you ran away without telling him, planning upon taking care of the baby alone."

"Yes."

"You'll have to work to support your child. Wouldn't it have been easier to stay with him and find a better job yourself? No one would need to know that your baby is illegitimate. You are a widow, after all. You still carry the name of Mrs. Calvert."

"No, Debbie, I couldn't have stayed with him. He would have wanted to support the child himself."

"Do you love him?" Deborah asked softly.

"What?" Rose wasn't certain she had heard right.

"Do you love him?"

Rose remembered another time, another conversation. Then, it had been Jack asking her that same question about Cal. She hadn't known what to say then. She did now.

"Yes, I love him. More than anyone I've ever known."

"Then you should tell him about the baby, and let him decide whether he's capable of supporting a child or not."

Rose shook her head. "No, Debbie. No. I can't tell him. I know him too well. He would want to marry me and take care of the child, and that would be too hard for him. I love him too much to put that burden on him."

"So you simply left with no explanation."

"I told him that things weren't going to work out between us."

"And that was all?"

"I'll always love him, Debbie. I've loved him from the first time I met him, five and a half years ago. I never stopped loving him. But it won't work, and I already know it."

"It won't work because of the baby, or because when trouble comes you're going to run again?"

"I can't stay with him, Debbie. I just can't." She turned pleading eyes to her best friend. "I need a place to stay for a while, just until I can find a job and another place to live."

"Rosie..."

"Please, Debbie. I don't have anywhere else I can turn."

Deborah sighed. "All right, Rosie. You can stay here for the time being. But you need to stop running. What are you going to do when trouble finds you again? Are you going to abandon your child and flee again? Will you drag the child with you while you try to escape from whatever it is that haunts you? What are you going to do, Rose?"

Deborah knew that her words had struck deeply at Rose. Her best friend had been running for five years, from her fiancé, from pain and sorrow, from her own haunted past. She and Rose had sat up late into the night, talking. Even after Rose had finally spoken of all she had endured over the years, Deborah still felt that she had only scratched the surface of what was bothering her best friend. She knew all too well how grief and suffering could work their way into a person's mind until it was nearly impossible to set them aside. She had finally overcome her own demons, but Rose had not, and it was these demons that haunted her, pushing her to run whenever trouble came her way—or whenever someone got too close.

Rose had told her the story of how she had met Jack on the Titanic, and Deborah had finally understood that Rose's misery had gone deeper than she had ever imagined. Rose had never really fit in with their society, but she had endured it until her mother had arranged the marriage with Caledon Hockley. Unable to bear Hockley's abuse, she had tried to kill herself by jumping off the Titanic. But even as she had perched on the railing, ready to jump, Jack Dawson had come along and talked her out of it. She had thought that he had died when the Titanic sank, but it had been his memory that had kept her going when things were at their worst.

Now, Deborah couldn't help but wonder if Jack could help Rose to finally banish the demons that had haunted her for so long. She had held on to his memory for so long, and never stopped mourning him, not completely. She felt strongly that Rose should tell him about the baby, explain to him why she could not, would not stay. But that was up to Rose.

She looked up from her writing as the doorbell rang. A moment later, the maid knocked at her door, bringing her a telegram.

Deborah's heart jumped into her throat at first—what if it was bad news about Will? Her concerns were eased, though, when she saw that the telegram had come from Los Angeles. Any telegram about Will would have come from Europe or the east coast.

Opening it, she read the message, her eyes widening as she saw the name of the sender—Jack Dawson, Rose's lover. She had disappeared two nights earlier without a trace, and he wondered if she had seen her.

Deborah's thoughts whirled as she set the telegram on her desk. This could be a way to bring Rose back to Jack—but did she dare contact him? Rose had sworn her to secrecy, not wanting Jack to know where she was, if indeed he was able to contact Deborah.

But she also knew that Rose needed to stop running, and her intuition, honed by years of dealing with her own private sorrows, told her that if anyone could heal Rose, it would be him.

She thought over the dilemma all day, debating whether to contact Jack and tell him where Rose was or not. Rose trusted her to keep her secret, but her concerns for her best friend were almost enough to override that promise.

By mid-afternoon, Deborah knew what she would do. Summoning a servant, she composed a telegram, telling Jack that Rose was indeed in San Francisco with her, but not telling him why Rose had come there. She ended with a plea for him to come and talk some sense into Rose, then sent the servant to the telegraph office, swearing him to secrecy.

She could only hope that Rose would understand.

Jack looked out the window as the train neared San Francisco. He had left just after midnight, telling his boss that something had come up and he had to leave immediately. His boss had told him that he hoped this was the last emergency, or Jack would be out of a job, but he already suspected that he would be unwelcome when he returned. He could only hope that he would be able to find a new job quickly.

When he exited the train, Jack stood for a moment, wondering where to go. Rose had mentioned that Deborah lived on Nob Hill, but the question was, where? He wasn't even sure where Nob Hill was, having never been to San Francisco before.

A quick perusal of a city directory lent to him by the ticket office clerk gave him the Hutchison's address, but also let him know that it was much too far for him to walk. He sighed inwardly, not wanting to spend the money for transportation, but knowing that he had no choice.

Fortunately, the trolleys were cheap. It took him a while to figure out where he was going, but he eventually made his way as near as the trolleys went to the Hutchison's neighborhood. He walked the rest of the way, struggling up the steep hills.

It was 6:30 before he found the Hutchison mansion. As he had walked, he had marveled at the wealth around him, ignoring the stares and comments of people who knew he didn't belong in these neighborhoods. He wondered where the people had obtained their wealth, wondering how many of them had obtained it through deceit and abuse of the people who worked for them.

He put the thoughts from his mind. He didn't know the answer, and couldn't solve such problems if they existed. He needed to concentrate upon Rose, upon finding out why she had run from him.

Ringing the doorbell, he told the maid who answered it who he was, then sat down on the bench beside the door to rest as he waited.

The maid, Lucille, hurried up to the dining room. Deborah, Rose, and Grace were there, eating dinner.

"Mrs. Hutchison, there's a Mr. Dawson here to see you," she announced.

Rose glanced at Deborah suspiciously. Mr. Dawson? Surely Deborah wouldn't have betrayed her trust. There were any number of Mr. Dawsons in the world. It was probably a business associate of her husband or father.

Deborah avoided Rose's gaze, filling Rose with an even deeper suspicion. She didn't want to believe that her best friend would betray her, but the name of the visitor, combined with Deborah's refusal to meet her eyes, told her that what she suspected was true.

Before Deborah could stop her, Rose raced out of the dining room and into the foyer. Deborah followed as quickly as she could in her wheelchair, arriving just as Rose flung open the door.

Rose had known, from the moment she saw the empty foyer, who she would find outside the door, but it didn't stop the feelings of shock and hurt when she saw Jack sitting on the bench outside the door.

"Rosie..." Deborah reached out a hand to her to stop.

Rose just looked in shock from Jack to Deborah. "How could you?" she choked out, her hurt, angry glare impaling her best friend. "How could you tell him where I was? I trusted you, and you betrayed me."

"Rose..." Jack got up from the bench, leaning tiredly on his walking stick. "I asked her where you were."

Rose stepped away from both of them, her hurt and anger knowing no bounds. "Stay away from me," she told him, rushing down the ramp before either could follow.

"Rosie, if you'd just let me explain..." Deborah pleaded, but Rose wanted no part of it. Turning on her heel, she rushed down the sidewalk, away from her best friend and the man she loved.


	78. The Prodigal 9

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Jack and Deborah watched Rose run down the sidewalk, heading in the direction of the beach. Jack started to go after her, but Deborah caught his arm.

"Let her go. She needs to be alone for a while."

"It's starting to get dark. She really shouldn't be alone in the city at this hour."

"Rose can take care of herself. She's been doing so for years." At Jack's expression, Deborah added, "I know where she'll probably go. There's a spot on the beach where she likes to sit and think. She went there a lot after her husband died and she came back here for a few weeks. I went with her once."

"In that wheelchair?" Jack asked, then realized what he was asking. "Sorry. I guess if you can get it across the sand..."

"I've taken my wheelchair across more than one stretch of sand. It can be done if you're strong enough."

Jack leaned tiredly on his walking stick. "You're right. You can. Mrs. Hutchison..."

"Deborah."

"Deborah. Do you have any idea what she's so upset about?"

"She didn't want you to know she was here. She thinks it's a betrayal that I told you where to find her."

"Why did she leave in the first place? I mean, everything seemed fine, and I'd never thought of her as a person to hide whatever was bothering her..."

Deborah looked at him. "You really don't know, do you?"

"What is it I don't know?"

Deborah motioned to him to sit back down on the bench. "She said she hadn't told you why she left, but I wasn't sure if that was true or not."

"Did she tell you?"

"Yes." Deborah took a deep breath, hoping that telling him wouldn't get her into more trouble with Rose. "Mr. Dawson..."

"Jack."

"Jack. The reason that she left is that she's pregnant."

"That was why she left? But why? Did she think I would throw her out or abandon her?"

"Just the opposite. She was sure you wouldn't."

"Then what was the problem?"

"She didn't want to put any kind of burden on you." When Jack started to speak, she held up her hand. "She knew how difficult it was for you to find work, and thought that if you knew, you would want to support the baby yourself, instead of letting her do so."

"I don't mind that she works."

"She realizes that, but she knows that one or both of you will have to find work that pays better to support the baby. She thought it would be too hard for you, so she left to take care of the child herself."

"Just like that? Without a word?" Jack tried hard to keep the anger and confusion out of his voice. He had already lost one child. Where did Rose get the idea that she should deprive him of another?

"She thought that it would be easier if you didn't know, so that you'd never try to help take care of the child. She doesn't think you can."

"What do you mean, she doesn't think I can?" Jack was growing angrier. "Does she think that just because I have a little trouble walking, I'm incapable of working to support our child, incapable of being a good father?"

"I think Rose doesn't know what she thinks, so she came up with an excuse."

"And what do you think? Do you think a crippled person can be a good parent?"

Deborah looked at him evenly. "I'm in a wheelchair. I can't walk at all, nor have I been able to in eleven years. And yet, I have a daughter, who I love very much. Yes, I think a crippled person can be a good parent. And so does Rose. It's your financial situation she was worried about, not your ability to be a good father."

"She's right, work can be difficult to find...but then, it always was. That's just the way life is. I see no reason not to help support the child, to be a part of it's life."

"Would you marry her?"

"Of course."

"Out of love or duty?"

Jack looked stunned for a moment. No one had ever asked him that before. Finally, he answered. "Out of love." His voice was steady. "I would never have taken up with her as I did if I didn't love her."

"She thinks you would marry her out of duty."

"No. Not out of duty. I love her. But how can I tell her that without her walking away again?"

"I think you should propose to her without letting her know that you know about the baby. Let her tell you, and pretend to be surprised. She'll think much more favorably of your proposal if she knows that you want to marry her because you love her."

"Do you think she'd accept?"

"I don't know, Jack. That's something you'll have to work out with her."

Rose ran down the sidewalk, her feet pounding on the pavement. _How could she? How could she?_ The thought rang through her mind over and over. _How could Debbie betray me this way? She's my best friend. She knew that I didn't want Jack to find me. Why did she tell him where I was?_

But at the same time, another thought made itself known. _I'm glad she did._

Rose kept running until she reached the shore, then walked across the sand and sank down on a piece of driftwood. She hadn't wanted to leave Jack. If she hadn't become pregnant, she would have stayed with him—at least until something went wrong, or she felt that they were becoming too close.

Alone on the beach, she could acknowledge that her pregnancy wasn't her only reason for leaving. While it was true that she didn't want to put the burden of a child on him, it had been an excuse to leave before she could be hurt again. Everyone she had loved had left her—or she had left them. Her very presence seemed to bring trouble. Sooner or later, everyone she loved would be hurt by her.

Deborah's words from the previous day came back to her. _What are you going to do when trouble finds you again? Are you going to abandon your child and flee again? Will you drag the child with you while you try to escape from whatever it is that haunts you? What are you going to do, Rose?_

What would she do? She couldn't simply leave her child behind when things got rough—but what would happen to it? Would she be able to care for it? Would having her for a mother bring misery upon the child? She wanted the baby; she had wanted a child for years. But she wasn't sure that having a child of her own was a good idea. What if she really was cursed?

It was ridiculous to believe that she was cursed, she knew. But somehow, that didn't make any difference. Logic told her that there was nothing wrong with her, nothing about her that inevitably brought harm to those she cared about. But her emotions told her something different, and for that reason she had run blindly for five years, settling only briefly when a glimmer of hope presented itself. And when the hope had vanished, when her reason for settling was gone, she ran again. Eventually, she had come to believe that she _had_ to run, in order to keep from bringing her own bad luck down on others.

And yet, when Jack had come back into her life, she had been shaken up by it. Maybe she wasn't really cursed; maybe she didn't bring bad luck down on those she loved. She had thought him dead; for five long years she had mourned his death. And then, suddenly, he had been there, alive and well, driving a wagon down a California road. Her presence hadn't destroyed him before, and she had been willing to take a chance on staying with him again.

But she had been running for too long. Always, in the back of mind, was the nagging thought that something could happen, that something could take him from her. And so, to avoid being hurt by his loss, she had run from him.

She couldn't go back to him now. She had almost killed him once, letting him sink into the dark, icy Atlantic, and then had compounded her error by almost marrying Cal. Fate had brought them back together, but she knew there wouldn't be another chance.

It was for the best, anyway. If she never allowed herself to get close to anyone, there would never be any pain.

Jack and Deborah sat in the Hutchison's car as the chauffeur, Mitchell, drove them through the darkened city streets toward the beach. Jack was glad not to have to walk; he didn't know his way around San Francisco, and had no idea where Rose might have gone. The coastline in the area was extensive, and Rose was capable of traveling a considerable distance in a short time.

Deborah knew where she was likely to have gone, though. Mitchell parked the car on the street near the beach, then brought Deborah's wheelchair around and lifted her out of the car. Jack waited, leaning against the vehicle, as Deborah got comfortable in the chair and wheeled herself around to face him.

"Thank you, Mitchell," she told him. "Just wait for us. I don't know how long we'll be, so if you want to find something to do, go ahead. There's plenty of places open around here."

"Yes, Ma'am." Mitchell tipped his hat, striding off toward some of the brightly lit buildings.

Jack looked at Deborah. "Where might she be?"

"Just follow me."

Deborah wheeled her chair down the walkway and onto the sand, struggling to move it. After walking slowly beside her for a few minutes, Jack handed her his walking stick and got behind her to push the chair himself.

"Just give me directions," he told her, scanning the dark beach for any sign of Rose.

"She'll probably be around that cliff there." Deborah pointed, glancing back at Jack as he struggled to push her through the fine sand. "Do you need some help?"

"I'm okay. Besides, this gives me something to lean on."

Deborah laughed. "I wish I could walk. You're lucky that you still can. What happened, if I may ask?"

"Polio. I was in New York City during the epidemic last year."

"You seem to have recovered better than many. I read in the newspaper that some people died, and others were permanently crippled, some worse than me."

"Yes." Jack thought of Amelia. "That's true. It was a bad time. I was lucky to survive." He changed the subject, not wanting to talk about it. "What happened to you?"

"I was injured in the earthquake here in 1906. You've heard of it, haven't you?"

"I heard about it. It was in all the newspapers. Even though I was living in a small town in Wisconsin, I still heard about it. I didn't pay much attention, though. I was only fourteen, and an earthquake in some far-off city I'd never seen didn't interest me much."

"I was eleven when it happened. I probably wouldn't have paid much attention either, had I not been there and been injured. We'd only been living in San Francisco for about a year. Before that, we lived in Philadelphia. That's how Rose and I know each other. When did you leave Wisconsin?"

"I left in 1907, after my parents were killed in a fire."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. It's been a while, now."

"When did you first come to California?"

Jack thought about it. "I think it was about 1910. I was in Northern California first, and then came to Southern California, to Santa Monica. Why?"

"You look familiar for some reason, like I've seen you before."

"So do you, a little. Maybe it's the wheelchair. I once drew a picture of a girl in a wheelchair at Santa Monica Pier."

"With her hat tilted on her head?"

"Yes! That was her." He stopped, surprised. "Was that you?"

"That was me. I still have the drawing. I figured you would be a famous artist someday."

"Well, I haven't gotten that far yet, though I keep trying."

"You'll get there. You have a gift."

"That's what Rose said, the day after we met."

"On the Titanic?"

"She told you about that?"

"Two days ago. She's been through a rough time over the years, but she's strong. She's survived a lot."

"She's told me about what she's been doing these past few years."

"All of it?"

"I don't know. She does seem to be hiding something sometimes."

They rounded the cliff that cut off the heavily visited beach from the more rugged area that Rose favored. Scanning the beach, they saw a hunched figure sitting on a chunk of driftwood, so lost in thought that she didn't notice their presence.

"Rosie..." Deborah called as they approached her.

Rose looked up, startled, surprised to see Jack and Deborah coming towards her. She hadn't expected them to follow her. Didn't they understand that she wanted to be alone?

"What are you doing here?" she asked, eyeing them suspiciously.

"We need to talk to you," Deborah told her before Jack could speak.

"No, you don't. You've said enough already—to him!" Rose pointed to Jack.

"Rosie, shut up." Deborah's voice was harsher than it had ever been. "I had my reasons for contacting him—and they were because of you. You've been running for too long. It can't go on forever."

"It's a free country, Deborah. I can do what I want."

"But do you really want to keep running?" Before Rose could answer, she went on. "You've been running for over five years, Rosie. Isn't it time to stop?"

"Don't tell me it's time to stop. That's for me to decide."

"When? When you've run out of places to run to? When you've abandoned everyone who cares about you? When is it going to end?"

"I've never done anything without a reason. And my life has not just been running away. Don't you dare say that it has been. I've done a lot of things, many of which I'm proud of, some of which I'm not. I've been an actress, and fought for civil rights, and married a good man. I've seen places I never thought I'd see. I even got on a ship again, and learned to fly a plane. I've met a lot of good people, and a few who weren't so good. And I've survived. I've survived everything that life has thrown at me, and I'm still here." Rose was trembling with the force of her emotions. "I've made it count."

"Yes, but Rosie, you've also run from a lot of good people. You run when things get uncomfortable, when people get too close. You're missing a lot of good things in life by refusing to let people get close, by leaving whenever trouble arises. You keep running from everyone, good or bad. Rosie, it's time to stop. I don't think you're happy."

"Don't tell me how I feel, Debbie. Only I know how I feel."

"I think you feel confused and unhappy."

Rose glared at her. Deborah had cut right to the heart of the problem, but Rose wasn't about to admit it. Turning, she began to stalk off down the beach.

"Rose!" She heard Jack calling after her, but didn't stop.

"I'll find my way back to the car, Jack," Deborah told him. "I think you two need to sort out your differences alone. I'll have Mitchell wait until you're ready to come back to the house."

"Will you be able to find him?"

"He knows to check back every so often to see if I've returned. He's been our chauffeur for several years."

"All right. I don't know how long this will take, though—or if it will even work."

"If anyone can help her, you can. She's loved you for years, even when she thought you were dead. Talk some sense into her, Jack. It's time for her to stop running."

Jack followed slowly after Rose. She had stopped in the shadow of another cliff that marked the boundaries of the beach at high tide, and was waiting for him. She stared out to sea as he approached.

"Rose." She turned to look at him. "Rose, I..."

"Why did you come after me? Didn't you find my note?"

"I found it. Why don't you think things will work out? Is it because I'm crippled?"

Rose hesitated. Maybe she should just tell him that was the reason, and let that be the end of it. He wouldn't want to be around her after she rejected him. But she couldn't lie to him.

"I couldn't stay, Jack. I would have hurt you, or you would have hurt me."

"No, I wouldn't have. And I don't believe you would have hurt me, either."

"Not deliberately, no. But a lot of things happen that just can't be avoided."

"And so you run before anything can happen."

"I'm not running."

"Yes, you are. You've been running for a long time." He paused, working up his courage. "Rose, I want you to come home with me to Los Angeles. I want you to be my wife."

"No." Rose shook her head. "I'm not coming back."

"Then I will stay here with you."

"That won't work, either. I won't marry you, Jack."

"Why?"

Rose turned to look at him. "Because it wouldn't work. Because I don't want to hurt you, and even if I didn't hurt you, you wouldn't want to stay with me for long."

"Rose, I missed you for over five years. Why wouldn't I want to stay with you?"

Rose turned away again. "You don't know me, Jack." Her voice was barely audible. "You don't know what I am or what I've done."

"Why don't you tell me?"

Rose turned to face him. _This is it,_ she thought. _This will kill it. He'll never want to see me again after he learns the truth._ As painful as it was, she had to tell him.

And she did. "I've done a lot of terrible things in my life, Jack. I've killed two people. I've been a whore when it was necessary to survive. I promised a dying old woman that I would bring back her grandson to inherit her property, and then crashed the plane we were flying in. I abandoned my mother to the tender mercies of the Hockleys, knowing that she didn't have many survival skills, and I haven't seen her since. I don't know if she's even still alive." Her voice broke on the last word. "That's why things won't work, Jack, because of what I am. I'm sorry I dragged you into this mess. I'll always love you, but I can't stay with you." She turned to walk away. "Good-bye, Jack."

"Rose, wait." He reached out to grab hold of her arm, but she was already walking. He followed her, limping through the sand as quickly as he could.

Just as he caught up to her, he tripped on the uneven ground, falling against her and knocking them both down in the sand.

"Get off me!" Rose's voice was panicked. "You'll hurt it!"

"Hurt what? The baby?"

"How did you know?!"

"Deborah told me."

"I'm going to kill her!"

"Haven't you killed enough people already?"

At that, Rose burst into tears. "I didn't mean to. I really didn't."

"What happened?"

"I accidentally killed a fellow actress in the Shakespeare troupe. She had been picking on me for months, and we got into a fight, and I shoved her against a cabinet and broke her neck. I didn't mean to. I was in jail for several weeks after that, but the verdict was not guilty by reason of self-defense. Then, out in the Mexico desert, after the plane crash, I was captured by the bandits who had shot the plane down. I only wanted to escape before they killed me, so I gave myself to three of the men, hoping that they would trust me enough to leave me untied. They did, but I felt sick inside afterwards. I had sold myself in exchange for my freedom. I knocked the guard unconscious, and tried to escape, but the leader of the group of bandits, who hadn't taken me, caught me trying to escape. He was trying to stab me when I got hold of his gun and shot him. I didn't want to kill him. It was self-defense. I hated myself for doing it. I still hate myself."

"You didn't have a choice. He would have killed you."

"And Marietta? I didn't have to kill her. I should have done like my friend Evelyn said and ignored her, turned the other cheek. She wasn't well-liked anyway. She might have been fired eventually."

"Rose..." Jack got up, helping her to her feet. They walked together back to the piece of driftwood, Rose crying hysterically the whole way.

"Rose," he began again. "You couldn't have known how the fight would turn out. You didn't kill her deliberately."

"I hated her. She was always looking for an excuse to pick on me, to get me into trouble. She wanted my position in the company, and the man who was my lover." She looked at Jack. "Yes, I had a lover. What I did was not whoring. I went to him because I wanted to. I never loved him, and he never loved me, but we still had some good times together. Things finally ended between us, and Marietta won his attention, but she still hated me. And I wound up murdering her."

"It was an accident."

"I still should have been punished."

"You've been punishing yourself."

"It's still not enough."

"Rose, it's over and done with. You can't change it, and you didn't mean for it to happen. Isn't it time you stopped tearing yourself up over it?"

"I can't. She'll haunt me forever. So will Guerrero."

Jack knew without asking that Guerrero was the man she had killed in the desert. "That may be, but you have a long life ahead of you. You can't put your life on hold because of them. They don't deserve that kind of sacrifice. It would have been better if you hadn't killed them, yes, but you didn't do it on purpose, and you feel enough guilt to punish you forever. It shows that you have a conscience."

Rose wiped her eyes with her skirt, wanting to believe him. Maybe she should stop hating herself over something that she hadn't meant to do, and couldn't change. But it was a hard thing to do.

Jack went on. "I don't think you're a whore, either. Those men you took on in the desert—you didn't have a choice. Your freedom was more important than anything else, and you went after it the only way you could."

Rose shook her head in denial. "It wasn't the first time I'd sold myself. I sold myself before—to Cal, in order to get the money my mother wanted. She may have arranged the marriage, but I went along with it, until the day that I turned and ran back down the aisle, leaving Cal, Mother, and everything I'd ever known behind. Cal was my first man. I was never willing with him, but that didn't matter. He had an unbelievable amount of power over me, or so I believed. I never really thought I had a choice until the day I left him. That time in the car, with you—it wasn't the first time for me. Cal had me first—but I wish you had been the first."

"I knew you weren't a virgin."

"How did you know?"

"You lacked a...ah...a maidenhead."

"I wasn't a whore for you." Rose's voice was defensive.

"No, you weren't. You were a warm, loving woman, the first I'd ever shared that with."

Rose stared at him. "I was?"

"You were."

"I didn't realize that. I wish that I had been able to wait—but Cal was convinced that he had a right to my body, whether I liked it or not. I couldn't say a word without having my reputation ruined. He was so well-respected—no one would have believed what he was doing to me. I only stayed with him after he found me on the Carpathia for Mother's sake. And then I abandoned her."

"Would you like to go back and see her again?"

"I can't, Jack. It's been too long. I don't even know where she might be."

"We could go to Philadelphia and look for her."

"But what about your work?"

"I think I'm out of a job, and so are you. You boss at the restaurant told me to tell you not to come back, and your director was furious that you'd disappeared."

"Oh, God." Rose buried her face in her hands. "I'm so sorry, Jack. I didn't mean to cause so much trouble."

"With no other place to go, really, and nothing better to do, why don't we take the time to go back east and look for your mother? I think you've been carrying around the guilt of abandoning her for a long time now."

"Since I left," Rose agreed. "I don't know if she'd even want to see me, after the way I ran from her."

"But can it hurt to try?"

"No, I guess it can't. If she wants nothing to do with me, then...then maybe my mind will be at peace. And if she does...maybe I can help her in whatever situation she's found herself in." Rose thought about Cal's words about his father being in love with her mother, but she didn't know whether to believe him or not. He hated redheads, had wanted to kill her, and his story about her mother might have been a figment of his crazed imagination.

"Maybe, if we can find her, she can attend a successful wedding."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I'm not marrying you, Jack. I've already said that. I'm not going to burden you with this child."

"It wouldn't be a burden. Yes, work is hard to find sometimes, but that's the way it's always been. And whether you marry me or not, I will still contribute to the care and feeding of this child. It's a part of both of us. I've lost one child, but I won't allow you to run away and take this one from me. Even if you want no part of me, I still want to know where you are, and how you are doing, so that I can do my part to keep a roof over your heads and food in your stomachs, and so that maybe, one day, I can be a part of our child's life."

"I won't have you marrying me out of duty. You wouldn't be happy, and neither would I."

"It isn't duty. I've loved you for a long time, Rose. On the day I left Philadelphia, I wished it was me you were marrying instead of Cal. After we met again and moved to Los Angeles, I always hoped that once life was settled for us, we might marry and start a family. Now, that family has been started sooner than expected, but I still love you, and it's for that reason that I want to marry you. Not just to give the baby a name, but to have you at my side for a lifetime."

"Jack..." Rose flung her arms around him. "I don't know. I just don't know. I love you, but everyone I've loved has suffered."

"Not everyone, Rose. Loving you has never made me unhappy—except for when I thought you were marrying Cal. And now you're free and clear..."

"Yes…"

"And you are an independent woman who can take of herself. But I still want you at my side, because I love you."

"I love you, too, Jack." She paused, taking a deep breath. "Yes."

"What?"

"Yes, I accept your proposal. I'll marry you."

"Rose..." And before she could say a word, he took her in his arms and kissed her as though he would never stop.


	79. The Prodigal 10

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Rose sat beside Jack on the train, staring out the window. They had left San Francisco two days earlier, and had been on the train heading east ever since.

Rose had watched with growing trepidation as the landscape changed, signaling that they were moving ever closer to their destination, Philadelphia. She hadn't been to Philadelphia since the Shakespeare troupe had performed there, and she hadn't seen her mother or any of her old crowd since she had fled from her wedding over five years earlier.

What would they think of her now, showing up on her mother's doorstep—if indeed the old house she had grown up in still belonged to her mother? It was entirely possible that her mother had lost the house and moved elsewhere. She might not even be in Philadelphia anymore, and if she was, how would Rose know how to find her? People of her old crowd seldom paid much attention to those less fortunate, and Ruth had been fast on her way to becoming one of those they looked down on when Rose had left.

Again, the guilt assailed her. Ruth had been depending upon her to marry Cal and solve their financial problems, but instead Rose had run from him. And then, to compound matters, she had never contacted her mother, never let her know that she was all right. If Rose had contacted her, they might have been able to start again. Instead, she had no idea what had happened to her mother over the last five years.

Rose thought of Alice's story of what had happened to her mother when they had moved to the city to start over after her father had left them. Shuddering inwardly, she wondered if that had been Ruth's fate. Ruth had been greedy and domineering at times, but no one deserved such a fate—selling oneself on the streets to survive, and ending up working in a cramped, filthy, disease-ridden sweatshop. Ruth had possessed few survival skills—less even than Rose, who had been a good student and a quick study, rapidly learning what she needed to survive and even thrive in her new way of life. Ruth had never seen the point in learning anything that wasn't immediately interesting and useful—and approved by society.

What would Ruth say if they did find her? What would she think when Rose appeared with Jack at her side? Rose had thought him dead, and had told her mother as much. What would Ruth think when he appeared beside Rose, alive and well—for in the past few days, Rose had ceased to think of Jack as crippled; to her, he was only Jack now, no more and no less than he had been when they had met so many years ago on the Titanic.

Rose glanced at Jack, whose head lay against the back of the seat. He was asleep, his mouth slightly open. Rose felt a pang of guilt, since they had been unable to afford even the least expensive sleeping spaces on the train. They had only bought tickets for seats, and took their meals in the dining car. At night, they slept in their seats, leaning against each other. Rose had little difficulty with the arrangement—it was, in fact, more comfortable than many sleeping arrangements she had had over the years—but Jack tired more easily than she did, and the arrangement was harder on him.

Rose leaned back against the seat, wondering if perhaps they should have taken Deborah up on her offer to buy them more comfortable accommodations on the train. Certainly, Deborah had the money—the cost of two sleeper tickets would hardly be worthy of notice—but Jack had too much pride to accept such a gift, and Rose, already feeling guilty for the shabby way she had treated her best friend, had refused the offer. Now, she wondered if she should have accepted it—for Jack, at least.

Jack and Rose had returned to the car late the night Jack had arrived in San Francisco to find out why Rose had run from him. After Rose had at last accepted his proposal of marriage, Jack had kissed her for a long time; then, unmindful of the fact that Deborah was waiting for them, they had slipped down to the sand and made love, slowly, gently, and tenderly; only later returning to the car to be greeted by Deborah, with a knowing look in her eyes.

That night, they had slept peacefully in each other's arms, awakening late in the morning. When they had come downstairs, Deborah had greeted them with a contrite look. When she finally admitted to Rose that she had told Jack of Rose's pregnancy, Rose had surprised her by thanking her and announcing her engagement to Jack.

They had left San Francisco the next day. Deborah had made them promise to tell her when their wedding would be held, and where. She had been matron of honor at Rose's wedding to Robert, and fully intended to hold the same position at Rose's wedding to Jack.

Now, Jack stirred, sitting straighter and rubbing his eyes. "Rose?" he mumbled, yawning.

"Hmm?"

"What time is it? Where are we now?"

"It's about six o'clock in the evening. We should be in Saint Louis soon."

"What time do you think we'll be getting to Philadelphia?"

"Early tomorrow morning, unless I miss my guess." Rose was seized with a sudden terror. "Jack, I don't think I can do this. What if we can't find my mother? What if something has happened to her? Sometimes, I think it's better if I don't know. When you don't have knowledge, you can have hope."

"But you can also have fear. You don't know what has become of her, and you'll never have peace until you know."

"I know...but I don't know how I'll be able to face her if we do find her. She may not even be in Philadelphia anymore. She might have done what I did—gone to another city. What if she tried to find me, without success? If she knew where I was, surely she would have let me know. I was in Philadelphia four years ago with the Shakespeare troupe, but I never heard a word from her."

"Did you ever think that maybe she didn't know it was you? You did change your name."

"But my picture was used in the advertisements. She would have seen those. They were in the newspaper."

"Maybe she knew, but chose not to interfere with your new life."

Rose shook her head. "Jack, my mother always interfered in whatever I did. I see no reason why she would have hesitated to interfere in my career as an actress."

"You ran away, and not just a quiet, subtle disappearance. From what you've said, you rejected Cal and ran from him and everything you'd ever known in front of five hundred members of Philadelphia society. That in itself could have been enough to shock her into a realization of how she'd treated you—and of how desperate you were to get away."

"Jack, you don't know my mother. She would never allow me to stand in the way of her plans. When Cal found me on the Carpathia and brought me back to first class, she was overjoyed to see me alive—but she still insisted that I go through with the marriage to Cal. And no matter how I protested, she wouldn't change her mind. I went along with her...until the day I left. I have neither seen nor heard from her since. She was always one of the most stiff, unyielding people I knew."

"But do you still know her, Rose? You've had no contact in five years. People do change, you know—you've changed, and so have I. How do you know she hasn't changed, too?"

"I don't," Rose admitted. "I only know what I knew before."

But it didn't change how she felt. She didn't know how she would face Ruth, or her old crowd. Jack was right—she had changed, and she could never fit in with the staid, self-satisfied people she had known before. Rose DeWitt Bukater had ceased to exist the day she had left, and five long years had passed since then. She had lived a lifetime in those five years, and could never again fit into that society—or any other, for that matter. She was no longer a part of any society, of any social class. She was just Rose, and Rose, the prodigal daughter, was finally coming home.


	80. The Prodigal 11

Chapter Eighty

August 22, 1917

Rose stepped down from the train, her heart beating with trepidation. She was here. She was really here. Back in Philadelphia, after more than four years away. She was seeking out her mother, who she hadn't seen in over five years. What would people think of her, suddenly showing up like this? Would she be able to find her mother, and if she did, how would she explain Jack's presence, or her plans to marry him? She had long ago assured Ruth that Jack was dead, and finding out that he was alive might come as a shock to her.

Rose picked up their bags, waiting while Jack got off the train and joined her. He gave her a reassuring smile, which she tried to return, but inside she was anything but calm. Surely, after all this time, her mother wouldn't try to push her into marriage to Cal again. If she did, Rose would go back on her promise not to run anymore. She was willing to face life and its trials and tribulations, but the thought of facing Cal was more than she could bear. He had tried to kill her, had killed Alice, and she prayed that she wouldn't run across him in Philadelphia.

Slowly, the couple walked through the city in the direction of Rose's old home. It had been more than five years since Rose had traveled this way, but she remembered it as though it were yesterday. Frantically stuffing a few items into a small bag, and running from the house through the servants' entryway as the voices of Dennis Rivers and Ruth had echoed through the house; then fleeing through the streets of Philadelphia until she came to the train station. She wondered about Ellen, the maid who had helped her get away, and hoped that no harm had come to her.

Philadelphia hadn't changed much. There were more buildings, more houses and factories, but for the most part it was the same as she had left it so long ago. Her turmoil increased as they left the older, more run-down part of the city and entered the middle class neighborhoods. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it would burst from her chest as they reached the upper class neighborhood in which Rose had grown up.

As they turned down her old street, Rose froze, unable to go any farther. Jack tugged on her arm, encouraging her to keep moving, but she shook her head frantically.

"I can't do this, Jack. It's been too long. I don't belong here."

"You'll never find peace unless you find out what has become of your mother. We don't have to stay long, only long enough to find out if she still lives here. If she's still here, then you can decide what to do then. If not, we'll leave. Come on, Rose. You can make it."

Rose took a deep breath, comforted slightly by Jack's words. Hesitantly, she moved forward, walking slowly toward the mansion halfway down the street.

What would Ruth think of her? she wondered—if she was even there. She had never contacted her after she had left. She had thought about it, but at first she had been afraid of being found and brought back, and later she had assumed that her mother would never want to see her. What mother would want to acknowledge a daughter who had killed two people, who had spent time in jail? Ruth had never been the most tolerant person, and Rose had been certain that she would want nothing to do with her after what she had done.

It had been so long since she had seen Ruth. Her last glimpse of her had been her shocked face as Rose had turned and run back down the aisle. Was she all right? Was she even still alive? Cal had sounded very threatening that night in the alley. Even if her mother was alive, where might she be? Had she found a way to keep her home and her status, or had she wound up like Alice's mother had, working in some sweatshop? Briefly, Rose considered that Ruth might have returned to New Orleans, but rejected the idea. Ruth's finances had been in difficulty when Rose had left, and if she had gone back to where she grew up, she would have been there by the time Rose had arrived and commenced her brief career as a street performer and civil rights activist. Tom had wondered what had happened to Ruth, and since he was still in contact with the DeWitts, at least occasionally, she thought that he would probably have known if her mother had been there.

Rose took a deep breath as they reached the long, clear walkway of her old home. This was where she had grown up, where she had lived until she was seventeen years old. This was where her father had died, brought home from the hospital to spend his last days at home. In an upstairs bathroom, she had lost her first baby. She had gone to parties here; had had her debut here. Seeing the magnificent home brought back so many memories.

But it wasn't her home anymore. She hadn't really had a home in a long time, other than those places she had briefly called home—the boarding house in New York City, the sod hut on the Alaskan tundra, and Esther's ranch house in Southern California. Those were the only places she had really called home in the last five years.

Taking a deep breath, fighting down her trepidation, Rose made her way to the front door, Jack a comforting presence behind her. Nervously, she reached up and rang the doorbell.

A maid answered the door. Rose didn't recognize her, but then, it had been a long time since she'd been home.

"Yes? Can I help you?" the young woman asked, eyeing the shabbily dressed couple.

"Yes. I'm looking for Ruth DeWitt Bukater. Do you know where I might find her?"

"Let me find out, miss."

Rose sank down on the front steps. Her mother wasn't there anymore. She wasn't really surprised, but at the same time, she had hoped that things would be the same as when she had left.

Jack sat beside her, a comforting arm around her shoulders, until the lady of the house came to the door.

"You were looking for Ruth DeWitt Bukater?" she asked.

Rose stood up and turned to face her. "Yes. Do you know where she might be?"

The woman blinked in surprise. "Rose DeWitt Bukater! Is it really you? No one's heard a thing from you since you abandoned your groom all those years ago. Leticia Mills saw you in the theater, though. She swore it was you, even though the actress had a different name. The play was Hamlet."

"That was me," Rose confirmed. She didn't remember the woman, but she hadn't been very close to many of Ruth's friends and acquaintances, preferring the company of those her own age.

"So, you've finally come back to Philadelphia. Wait until everyone hears about this."

Rose could just hear the comments about her. Rose DeWitt Bukater had abandoned her fiancé at the altar and had run away to be an actress. Now that she was back, the gossips would have a field day. Such a scandal!

But Rose realized that she didn't really care anymore. She had been the subject of scandal and had survived unscathed. She would again. The opinions of her old society meant nothing to her—except for her mother's opinion, she suddenly realized. She wanted very much to know that Ruth still accepted her as a daughter, in spite of everything she'd done; that she still loved her daughter, the only child she had brought into the world.

"Do you know where Mrs. DeWitt Bukater is?" Rose asked, interrupting the woman's tirade.

She looked offended at being interrupted, but gave Rose an answer. "She sold this house to my husband four years ago when she remarried and moved to her husband's home—"

"Who did she marry?" Rose asked, wondering if her mother might still be in Philadelphia.

"Why, don't you read the society pages? She married Mr. Hockley."

"Mr. Hockley?" Rose's face went pale.

"Yes, Mr. Hockley. They're living in his home on Pierce Street."

Pierce Street. That was where Cal and his father had lived. What sort of situation had her mother gotten herself into? She couldn't have married Cal—or could she? There was only a few years difference in their ages. No. It couldn't be. It had to be Nathan Hockley that she had married. But how had she fared, living in the same house with Cal? He hated her for being a redhead. If only it really was the elder Hockley, and not Cal.

"Thank you," Rose told the woman. "We'll go there at once."

Rose leaned down to help Jack to his feet. He looked worried now, too. He, as well as Rose, knew what Cal was capable of. Neither had ever forgotten the last night on Titanic, when Cal had shot at them in a jealous rage. Jack hadn't been very fond of Ruth, but neither did he wish her harm, and he knew from Rose's reaction that she feared that harm had befallen her mother.


	81. The Prodigal 12

Chapter Eighty-One

Jack and Rose walked toward Pierce Street in silence, Rose too worried to speak and Jack not knowing what to say. Had Rose's mother married her daughter's ex-fiancé, or had she married the elder Hockley? Rose had once mentioned to him that the marriage between Cal and herself had been arranged by Ruth and Cal's father, Nathan, who was himself a widower. Ruth could have married either one.

Rose was beside herself with worry. Would Cal be there? Was it Cal her mother had married, or his father? If it was Cal, how had he treated Ruth? Did he abuse her, as he had abused Rose? Or, if it was Nathan Hockley that Ruth had married, had he been able to protect her from his son's madness? In spite of his outward charm, Cal had hated Ruth as much as he had hated Rose—but it hadn't stopped him from accepting the engagement to Rose, and it might not have stopped him from marrying Ruth.

Rose's breath caught in her throat as they turned down Pierce Street and came in sight of the Hockley mansion. Even more elaborate than the old Bukater home, it was considered an architectural masterpiece. People came from miles around to look at it, but Rose could think only of the few times she had visited there, of the tense, silent dinners in Cal's company—and of the first time that Cal had beaten her, in the parlor while Nathan and Ruth were still at dinner. The beating might have been worse, had a maid not stepped into the parlor, but as it was, Trudy, who had once been in the Hockley's employ, had looked at her questioningly when helping her to dress, not believing for a moment that Rose had fallen from her horse and injured herself.

Rose took a deep breath as she stepped slowly forward toward the house. In spite of the wide green lawn and elegant gardens, it looked forbidding and overwhelming. Who could possibly need so much space? she thought irrelevantly, stifling a sudden hysterical giggle. How ironic, that she was now deliberately returning to the world that she had run from so many years before.

Jack put a comforting hand on her back, sensing her distress. Walking at her side, he gently pushed her forward, knowing that Rose was on the verge of running again. She would never be able to forgive herself if she ran now.

Gathering her courage, Rose stepped up and rang the doorbell, waiting nervously. Maybe no one was home. Maybe everyone had gone off on a trip somewhere, though with the world in such turmoil, it wasn't likely. Besides, they would have left some servants behind to take care of things...

A tall, thin man opened the door. Rose stared at him in shock for a moment; almost believing that he was Spicer Lovejoy. If Jack had survived and later reappeared, why not Lovejoy? But a second look told her that Lovejoy was indeed long gone. This man was much younger, and had an almost friendly appearance.

"May I help you?" he asked, accustomed to tourists wanting to see the inside of the mansion.

"I...I...is Ruth Hockley here?" Rose stammered, wondering if the information given to her by her mother's old acquaintance was accurate; almost hoping that it wasn't. If Ruth wasn't here, if she hadn't married a Hockley, then she was probably far away from Cal's clutches—or at least she hoped so.

"She's here, but she isn't taking visitors at this time. May I tell her who stopped by?"

"She'll see me," Rose told him, hoping desperately that it was true. "I'm her daughter, Rose."

"Please wait, Ma'am. I will ask if she will see you." Closing the door, he walked away. Jack and Rose listened to the sound of his steps disappearing in the house.

"Oh, God. Jack, she's here. She's really here. She did marry a Hockley." Rose sank down onto the doorstep, burying her head in her hands. "Why isn't she taking visitors? Is she hurt? Is she ill? If Cal has hurt her, by God, I may just kill again, and damn the consequences!"

"Rose, calm down." Jack lowered himself to the step beside her. "Why would he have hurt her?"

"You don't know him like I do, Jack. You don't know what he's capable of. He hates her as much as he hates me. He'd hurt her if he could."

"He may not even be here. She might have married his father..."

"What if he is here, Jack? I can't face him again! I can't! After all he's done, I can't—_won't_ face him again. You can't imagine what he'll do if he sees me." She sprang to her feet, grabbing her suitcase. "I can't do this. He'll hurt me." Turning suddenly, she pulled Jack to his feet. "He'll hurt you, too, just to get to me. We have to get out of here."

"Rose, wait! What about your mother?"

"She's alive, and she made her own decision. I can't—but I have to see her. What if she's hurt? What if something's horribly wrong, and she dies thinking that I don't care? I have to go in there, no matter what that manservant says! If she's in danger, I—I'll take her away with us, whatever she thinks!"

Rose was shaking, almost hysterical. Dropping her suitcase, she raced toward the door, intent upon going inside, by force if necessary.

She was nearly yanked off her feet as Jack grabbed her arm, pulling her back. "Rose, stop! You can't just run in there. They'll throw you right back out."

"Let go of me, Jack! I have to see her—"

She had almost succeeded in freeing herself from his grip when the door opened. The butler stared at the struggling pair for a moment before announcing, "Mrs. Hockley will see you, Miss DeWitt Bukater."

Rose stopped struggling. Picking up her suitcase, she nervously tucked a few strands of hair behind her ears, composing herself. Taking a deep, calming breath, she started into the house, Jack following her.

"Only you, Miss. Your mother has only given permission for you to visit."

"It's all right," Rose told him, looking back at Jack. "He's my fiancé."

The butler looked at them for a moment, considering. At last, he relented.

"All right, Miss, he can come, but if Mrs. Hockley requests that he leave, her orders are to be obeyed."

"I understand." Rose nodded, following him toward the stairs. Which room was her mother in? she wondered. Did she have her own room, or suite of rooms, or did she share one with whichever man she had married? Ruth and Walter, her first husband, had never shared a room after Rose was born, but things might be different here.

She immediately recognized the room her mother occupied. It was the master suite, the room she herself would have occupied if she had married Cal. Rose felt a chill, again wondering which man her mother had married.

The butler knocked on the door, and Rose heard her mother's voice from inside. Her heart caught in her throat at the sound. _Mother!_

"What is it?"

"Mrs. Hockley, your daughter and her fiancé are here."

There was a pause, and then Ruth answered. "Show them in."

Jack and Rose entered the room, approaching the bed that Ruth lay in slowly. The butler quietly closed the door behind them, allowing them some privacy.

"Rose!" Ruth sat up, wincing as she did so. "I didn't believe James when he said it was you. So, you've finally returned, after all these years."

"Y-yes, Mother. I—I'm back." Ruth leaned back against a stack of pillows, shattering Rose's calm facade. "Mother, what's wrong? Why are you in bed at this hour? Are you sick? Are you hurt? Where's Cal? Did he hurt you?"

Ruth put a hand up, stopping Rose's hysterical tirade. "Rose, darling, I'm fine. Just tired and a little sore."

"Why? What happened?"

Ruth reached over and tugged on a bell cord, summoning her maid. A moment later, an older woman came in the door.

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"Lori, please bring Nathan to me."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Lori hurried away, leaving Jack and Rose staring after her.

"Mother!" Rose burst out. "What is going on? Where's Cal? Who did you marry?"

"You'll see what is going on in a moment, Rose. You always were impatient. I have a few questions to ask of you. For example, what is Mr. Dawson doing here? You told me repeatedly that he had died."

"I—I thought he was dead, but he wasn't. He assumed that I knew that he was alive, but I thought he was dead, so I never tried to find him. We—we met up again a few months ago, in California. We're engaged to be married." She looked at Ruth challengingly, daring her to object to her marriage plans.

But Ruth only smiled, surprising both Rose and Jack. "Congratulations. Now the name will be yours legally."

"What?"

"Rose Dawson. I knew that you'd taken that name when I saw an advertisement in the newspaper for a play you were in. It was unmistakably you, but you had changed your name."

"Why didn't you try to contact me when I was in Philadelphia?"

"You had your own life, one that you seemed happy in. I didn't want to interfere. I went to the theater one night and saw you on stage. You were beautiful up there, and so talented. I never realized how talented you were until that night. I thought about contacting you, but by the time I got the courage, you had moved on, and I didn't know how to find you."

"Mother..." Rose's eyes suddenly filled with tears. "I'm sorry I abandoned you like that. But I couldn't go through with the marriage to Cal. I just couldn't. And that was the only way I knew to get away. I've felt guilty ever since, about leaving you to face life alone."

"Your leaving was the best thing you could have done, Rose. I was blinded by the glitter of wealth and power that the Hockleys represented. I never stopped to think about how you really felt, or about how Cal treated you. Yes, Rose," she added, "I do know that he hit you, but I never did anything to stop it. I kept rationalizing his behavior, but you were wise to leave. He was a dangerous man."

"Yes, he was. Wait. _Was?_ What happened to him?"

"He's dead, Rose. He was found dead in the study the day I married his father."

"He's dead..." Rose's eyes widened in shock. She couldn't help but feel relieved that she would never have to face him again, but at the same time she felt guilty over her relief. It wasn't right to feel relieved over someone's death, not even Cal's.

"Rose..." Ruth began. "Rose, I'm sorry, too—for forcing you into the engagement. It was a bad decision, and your running away showed me just how bad a decision it had been. I think it was better for both of us that you left. You made a life of your own, and I learned what was really important in life. I married Nathan Hockley in June of 1913, and I've never been happier. I've finally learned what love is. It isn't money, or power, or status. It's something else, something I can't really describe, but I know what it is now."

"Mother..." Rose threw her arms around Ruth. "I know, too. I always wondered if you could understand."

"There was a time when I didn't understand, Rose, but now I know why you defied society to be with Mr. Dawson."

"I love him, Mother."

"I know." She turned her gaze to Jack. "Do you return her feelings, Mr. Dawson?"

"Call me Jack. Yes, I do. I love her more than I ever thought it was possible to love anyone."

"What name do you go by now, Rose?" Ruth asked. "Dawson, or DeWitt Bukater?"

Rose shook her head sadly. "Neither, Mother. I'm Rose Calvert. My husband, Robert, died only a few months after we were married."

"I'm sorry, Rose."

"Thank you. Jack is also widowed. His wife, Amelia, died in childbirth last year."

"You were fortunate, then, to find each other again, and to have a second chance."

"Yes." Rose looked at Ruth, wondering if she would understand. "I'm going to have a baby, Mother. Jack and I will be parents in March."

"Your wedding will have to be soon, then. If you will allow it, I would like to be a part of your wedding. I wasn't there, Rose, when you married your Robert, and your wedding to Cal should never have taken place. I'd like to be there when you marry Jack."

"Of course, Mother. I—I'd love to have you there. Maybe you can give me away?"

"I'd like that, Rose."

"The wedding will have to wait until you're better, though."

"I'm all right, darling. I should be up and about soon."

"Mother, what's wrong? Please tell me."

The door opened, and Lori walked in, carrying a blanket-wrapped bundle. A tiny head of black hair was visible, along with a waving fist. Lori brought the infant to Ruth, laying it in her arms. Jack and Rose stared at the baby.

"Rose, this is the reason I'm resting now. Meet your little brother, Nathan Hockley, Jr."

"My—my little brother? But—but Mother, you're forty-two years old—"

"And certainly young enough to still bear children. He was born yesterday afternoon at three o'clock."

"Mother..." Rose's mouth hung open in surprise. Of all the scenarios she had imagined, finding that her mother had had another baby had never entered her mind.

"Would you like to hold him, Rose?" Ruth laughed at her daughter's expression. "You need to learn to hold a baby if you're going to have one of your own."

Rose knew how to hold a baby, but she still took her newborn brother into her arms and cradled him. He yawned, dozing off in her arms.

"Mother, he's a beautiful baby. I don't if beautiful is the right word for a boy, but—"

"He's a baby. It will do." Ruth smiled, a genuine smile that Rose had rarely seen growing up. It transformed her features, making her look younger and more carefree than Rose had ever seen her. Indeed, Ruth's whole outlook on life had changed. She had learned what it meant to love and care for someone else, beyond the superficial caring that society expected. The constant worry and effort to be perfect had vanished, replaced by a happier view toward life. Rose had never seen her mother so content.

She cuddled her baby brother for a moment longer, then noticed Jack looking at him, a pensive expression on his face. Sitting down beside him on the couch near her mother's bed, Rose gently laid the baby in his arms, realizing that the sight of the newborn had reminded him of his own son, who hadn't lived to draw his first breath.

Jack took the baby in his arms, rocking the newborn gently. The dark-haired infant reminded him strongly of his son, who would have been over a year old now if he had lived. This baby would be his brother-in-law. It was strange, knowing that he might have had a child older than his brother-in-law. But it hadn't worked out. Maybe it hadn't been meant to work out.

After being held for a few minutes, little Nathan began to whimper, frightened of the strange arms holding him. Lori quickly took him back and gave him to his mother, who pulled the quilt up over herself and began to nurse him, surprising Rose even more. She wondered if Ruth had ever nursed her.

Pushing the thought away, she walked over to the bed and embraced her mother again. Cradling the baby with one arm, Ruth hugged her back.

"I've missed you, Rose," she told her daughter, kissing her gently on the cheek.

"And I—I've missed you, too, Mother," Rose answered, putting her arms around her mother and baby brother and hugging them with all her might.


	82. The Prodigal 13

Chapter Eighty-Two

Rose tensed as she heard the front door open and close downstairs. A voice rang out, one that she would recognize anywhere. Nathan Hockley was home.

Listening to him ascending the stairs, she couldn't help but wonder what he would think of the sudden reappearance of Ruth's prodigal daughter. They had a child of their own now. He might not be pleased at her suddenly showing up after five years, especially since the last time he had seen her she had left his son at the altar. Briefly, she wondered if he had ever realized that his first son was a madman.

There was no more time to wonder. Nathan opened the bedroom door and walked in, stopping short at the sight of Ruth's two guests. He stared in surprise at Rose, then looked at Jack, wondering who he was. He had heard stories about Jack Dawson, who had lured Cal's fiancée away, but he had never met him, nor seen a picture of him, and thus did not recognize him.

"Nathan?" Ruth asked, sitting up and pulling her nightgown closed. "Do you remember my daughter, Rose?"

"How could I forget? She was my son's fiancée. It's a surprise to see you again, Miss DeWitt Bukater."

"I didn't expect to come back," Rose replied. "And it's Mrs. Calvert, actually."

"Is this your husband, then?"

"No. My husband is dead. This is Jack Dawson. Perhaps you've heard of him?"

"I heard that he was dead," Nathan told her. "Are you sure this is the same person?"

"Entirely certain. I thought he was dead, but as it turned out, I was mistaken. We were fortunate enough to meet again a few months ago."

Ruth sat up straighter, pushing the covers off of herself. She handed the baby to Lori, climbing slowly out of bed. As she slipped on a robe, Nathan objected.

"Ruth, you shouldn't be out of bed. You only gave birth yesterday. You need to rest."

"I feel fine, Nathan. And it's time to celebrate. It isn't every day that one's daughter comes home, and engaged to be married at that."

Rose looked at her mother as she slipped on a pair of slippers and pulled the bell cord again to summon another maid. Ruth hadn't mentioned Rose's pregnancy, but perhaps it was too scandalous to be mentioned. Certainly, she wasn't showing yet; her middle was as flat as it had ever been. It would still be a month or two before she began to show, and longer still before she was obviously pregnant.

When the maid arrived in the bedroom, Ruth gave her instructions to take to the cook for dinner.

"I want a special dinner tonight. There will be four of us—myself, Mr. Hockley, Mrs. Calvert, and Mr. Dawson." She gestured to each person in turn.

"Of course, Ma'am. May I ask what the occasion is?"

"My daughter has finally returned home after all these years."

"That is a reason to celebrate." The maid looked at Rose curiously. She had never met Ruth Hockley's erstwhile daughter, but she had heard of her occasionally over the years that she had been working for the Hockleys.

"Oh, yes. One other thing. Please tell Ellen that she will be Rose's maid while she is here. She worked for me before Rose left, and I should think they would like to see each other again."

"Yes, Ma'am. Now, what would you like prepared for dinner?"

"Oh, yes, dinner. Roast beef with onion sauce, scalloped potatoes, spinach, stuffed cabbage, and cream puffs for dessert. Rose's favorite foods."

Rose stared at Ruth in surprise. She had almost expected to be rejected and told to leave when she arrived on her mother's doorstep. Instead, her mother was overjoyed to see her, having a special meal prepared to celebrate both her daughter's return and her engagement.

Rose didn't know what to make of it. She would never have expected such a warm reception, much less such acceptance of her engagement to a man her mother had once despised.

She shook her head. Only one thing was certain.

Ruth had changed as much as she had.

Dinner was served two hours later. Ruth had dressed for dinner, not as formally as in years past, but still more fancily than a nightgown and robe. Rose had changed into her one good dress after allowing Ellen to iron it for her. She was unaccustomed to being waited upon, having taken care of herself for the last five years.

While they were waiting, the four of them sat in the parlor, Jack and Rose telling what each had been up to over the years since they had last met. Ruth listened in rapt, sometimes appalled, attention as Rose told of what she had done over the years, leaving out those parts that she knew would shock or upset her mother. Jack told less of his past, speaking only briefly of his experiences as a miner and an artist, and of his marriage to Amelia and the way it had ended. Nathan eyed Jack's walking stick curiously, but was too polite to ask more about what Jack had been through.

It wasn't until dinner that Rose had a chance to ask Nathan and Ruth how they came to be married. The couple hesitated at first, then went ahead and told the story.

Ruth began the story. "After you left, Rose, I was shocked and devastated. I didn't understand how you could have given up everything I tried to get for you. Cal seemed to be the perfect match—and yet you left him at the altar."

"Mother—"

Ruth did not give Rose a chance to finish. Holding up her hand, she continued, "After a time, however, I began to question whether I had done to right thing in insisting that you marry Cal. You had told me often enough that you didn't want the marriage, but I refused to believe that you were that unhappy. Your love affair with Mr. Dawson should have told me, but I still thought that there might have been a chance for you and Cal. I finally realized that the pressure I had put upon you to marry him was the reason you fled. Had I not insisted upon that marriage, you would never have felt the need to run as you did."

"I was angry with you at first," Nathan interjected. "You had jilted my son and heir at the altar, humiliating the Hockleys in front of five hundred members of Philadelphia society. My anger lasted until I heard Cal's reaction. He was furious that you had left him the way you did, but it seemed as though he expected nothing better of you. I thought that it might be because of the way you took up with Dawson on the Titanic, but his reaction was far more vehement than I thought necessary—after all, he had never claimed to love you. It was an arranged marriage, as are many marriages. He told me that the reason you had left was because you were a whorish, unfaithful redhead. I knew that he disliked redheads, and had been surprised when he accepted the engagement to you, though I never did understand why he hated redheads so much."

Rose looked down at her plate. She knew why, but she would never hurt this man by telling him. It wasn't something that could be discussed in polite society, and Cal had only told her the truth as he was trying to kill her.

Nathan went on. "He was in a rage, shouting that he should have disciplined you better from the start, let you know what your place was—or gotten rid of you."

Rose shuddered inwardly, remembering Cal's idea of discipline—the beatings, the repeated rapes, and finally, his attempt to murder her in a deserted alley in New York City. He would have gotten rid of her eventually—and not through divorce or annulment, but by killing her.

"There was something about Cal's tone of voice, the rage in it, that set off warning bells in my mind. It was a frightening rage, one that I sensed had been simmering inside him for a long time. In that moment, I stopped being angry with you for leaving, and realized that it was probably the wisest choice you could have made, for your own sake."

"Nathan learned soon after you left that I had financial problems," Ruth spoke up. "He asked why I was so set on Rose marrying Cal, when Rose was obviously not happy with the idea. I evaded the question at first, but I finally admitted to the financial difficulties left in the wake of your father's death. I expected him to be angry for using his son like that, but he was amazingly sympathetic. Of course, it isn't unusual for people of our society to marry for financial gain. What really surprised me, though, was when he offered to help me. I accepted his help—I really had little choice. What I was suspicious of was why he would bother to help me after the trouble my matchmaking had caused."

"As Ruth soon learned, I had another type of matchmaking in mind, between she and I. She didn't trust me at first, possibly because of the way things had worked out between you and Cal, but after a while I convinced her that my interest was genuine. She offered to find a way to repay the money I had lent her, by going to work or by selling her belongings, but I refused. I didn't want her to repay me, whether she returned my affection or not."

"But after a while, I did return your affection," Ruth told Nathan, smiling contentedly at her husband. "Nathan proposed to me on Valentine's Day in 1913, and my response was immediate—yes. We were married on June 25, 1913, and I've never been happier."

Shortly after dessert, Ruth bade them all good night and retired to her bed, still tired from giving birth the day before. She told each of them good night, hugged her daughter and kissed her husband, and went upstairs to tend to her newborn and get some rest.

Nathan, Jack, and Rose returned to the parlor, Nathan and Jack sipping brandy. Nathan offered Rose some sherry, but she declined, finding that alcohol invariably brought on an attack of morning sickness. The three sat together in the parlor in silence.

It was Rose who finally spoke. Nervously, wondering if it was appropriate, she asked about Cal.

"Mother told me that Cal died on your wedding day, but she didn't tell me more. May I ask what happened?"

Nathan was silent for a moment, staring at his brandy as though it contained the answer to the question. Finally, running a nervous hand through his silver hair, he told them, "Cal committed suicide."

Rose gasped in shock. She had known that Cal was insane, but she had never expected him to take his own life. Looking at the still-present grief on her stepfather's face, Rose suspected that he had never expected it, either.

She didn't expect him to say more, but at last he began to speak again, telling them what had happened.

"Rose, I suspected after you left that there was something not quite right about my son. Many young women would have married him in a snap, and yet you left him at the altar. You had a frightened look on your face just before you dropped your bouquet and ran. After hearing Cal's reaction to your leaving, I began to think about things that I had never really noticed before—his hatred of redheads, particularly women, his love of alcohol—all things that pointed to a problem I had never thought of. He had always hidden it well, but I began to suspect that he wasn't quite right. I didn't want to admit it—it was hard to admit that my son and heir was a madman, but after a time I could no longer deny it. We had a new guesthouse built that summer, and while the foundation was being excavated, the shallow grave of a young redheaded woman was found—a maid who had disappeared abruptly. There was an investigation, and soon two other bodies were found, buried in different places on the property. I didn't want to believe that Cal was responsible, but deep inside, I knew."

Nathan sighed, taking a sip of brandy. "I confronted him about the bodies that had been found—all of whom were young redheaded women who had worked for us and had vanished without a trace. Cal denied it, but I could tell from his expression of anger and fear mixed with triumph that he was responsible. I knew that he wasn't right in the head, so I tried to have him committed to a discreet and quiet asylum. The judge, however, was swayed by Cal's charm. He saw no reason to suspect that Cal had killed those women, no reason to think that my son was insane. Cal could be very charming when he wanted to be, and he had fooled me into believing that he was sane for years. He returned to the house soon after I tried to have him committed, after spending a short time in New York City. That was in December of 1912. In February, I proposed to Ruth. When Cal found out, he was furious, threatening to kill her if I brought her home as my bride. I couldn't have him put away, so my only recourse was to threaten to disown him if he ever threatened Ruth again."

Nathan paused. "He seemed sullen but cooperative at first, not liking the ultimatum but not objecting either. I almost believed that things would be all right. Then, on our wedding day, he told me again what a mistake I was making in marrying an evil, deceptive redhead. I knew then that Ruth would never be safe in this house as long as Cal was in it, so I told him that he was no longer my son, and as such was no longer welcome in my home. I told him to be gone by the time I returned with my bride in the evening. And he was, in a manner of speaking. When I returned home, he was slumped in a chair in the study, a bullet through his head. He had been dead for hours by the time I found him."

Jack and Rose were shocked at the story. Rose leaned against Jack for support, not knowing what to think or feel. She had feared and hated Cal, but she would never have wished his life upon anyone—or his death. She remembered the times she had wanted to give up on life, and how each time she had been drawn back. No one had ever helped Cal, or even tried to help him. By the time the problem was recognized, it was too late to do anything.

No, she could never rejoice over what had happened to Cal in his life, but at the same time a part of her was glad that he was dead. At least now her mother was safe.

A short time later, Jack and Rose went upstairs to the rooms Ruth had had prepared for them. Nathan sat alone in the parlor, drinking another glass of brandy.

He had told them the story, but not the whole story. Once he had realized what his son was capable of doing, he had known that there was only one choice, one way to make things safe for his new bride and other innocent women.

His son hadn't committed suicide. Nathan had killed Cal himself.


	83. The Prodigal 14

Chapter Eighty-Three

August 23, 1917

The next morning, Jack and Rose decided to visit Cal's grave. Neither had liked him; they had in fact hated and feared him, especially Rose, but they felt that it was only right that they visit the grave.

After breakfast, they walked slowly through the streets of Philadelphia to the cemetery. Jack walked slowly beside Rose, leaning heavily on his walking stick. The strain of traveling for the past few days had worn him out, and he was slower than usual this morning.

They stopped only once, to buy flowers from a street vendor to put on Walter Bukater's grave. Rose selected a variety of carnations and violets, flowers that her father had favored. He was buried in the same cemetery as Cal, and Rose wanted to visit his grave once more before confronting that of her ex-fiancé.

The couple stopped at Rose's father's grave first. Rose knelt down, laying the flowers on the still slightly raised mound of earth. The grave was well cared for, but few people ever placed flowers on it anymore. Walter Bukater had largely been forgotten.

Rose's fingers traced the words carved on the marble headstone:

Walter Bukater  
1860-1911

There had been little money left when he had died, and he had been given only a simple headstone, in stark contrast to many of the more elaborate ones that were placed on the graves of members of Philadelphia society.

Walter had been just a month short of his fifty-first birthday when he had died suddenly from a heart attack, brought on by too many years of stress, smoking, and rich food. Had he taken better care of himself, he might have lived longer, but neither he nor his doctor had understood such things.

Rose knelt before the grave, remembering. It had come as a shock when he had died suddenly—he had seemed to be getting better. Her mother had been angry and embittered over his sudden death, something that Rose had never understood. It had not been long after he had died that Ruth had arranged the marriage with Cal, at last driving Rose to leave home.

She spoke softly. "Hello, Daddy. I'm finally home again, after wandering for five years. I've seen a lot of things in that time. I think you would have liked some of them." She stood, taking Jack's hand. "This is Jack Dawson, my fiancé. We'll be getting married soon. This will be my second marriage, and Jack's second marriage also. You would have liked Jack, I think, and also Robert. But then, maybe you know Robert, since he's there with you now." She paused. "Daddy, I'm going to have a baby. You're going to be a grandfather. I know that I'm not married yet, but I will be by the time the baby is born."

She went on, talking quietly about her mother's remarriage and her new baby brother, while Jack watched and listened, his expression pensive. Her words, and her visit to her father's grave, brought back memories of his own parents, buried ten years ago in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin. With a start, he realized that he, too, had left home and never returned.

Rose straightened, wiping her eyes. She looked at her father's grave one last time, then slowly moved on. Jack walked beside her, still deep in thought.

They followed the neat cobblestone paths around the outer edge of the cemetery. Nathan had told them that morning where Cal's grave was located, in the northeast corner of the cemetery next to the wall.

Within a few minutes, they had found the grave. A large marble headstone read:

Beloved Son  
Caledon George Hockley  
1882-1913

The nearby cobblestone path was undergoing repairs, so Jack stepped carefully around the stones piled beside it, watching as Rose looked at the headstone.

Rose stared at the headstone that marked Cal's final resting place, remembering how he had abused her, how he had nearly shot herself and Jack on the Titanic—and his attempt to murder her in the deserted alley in New York City. Thoughts of the others he had killed ran through her mind, and suddenly she was filled with grief and rage.

Before she thought about what she was doing, she bent down and picked up a handful of cobblestones, throwing them with all her strength at the headstone. One bounced off, chipping the fine marble. Hardly aware of what she doing, Rose screamed out her pain and anger.

"Bastard! Worthless, unimaginable bastard!"

"Rose!" Jack hurried forward, grabbing her arm before she could throw another stone. Rose dropped the rest of the rocks and fell to her knees on the path, sobbing.

Gently, Jack helped her to her feet. Pulling her close to him, he whispered soothingly, "It's all right now. He's dead. He can't hurt you anymore."

Rose pulled away, her rage not yet spent. "I hate him! He killed my best friend! He killed my baby!"

"Rose! Rose, it's all right. He didn't kill them. Deborah is all right. She's in San Francisco. He never hurt her."

"Not Deborah. No. He never hurt her, nor would he have. She's not a redhead, and he had no reason to dislike her. He probably didn't even remember her. No, it was Alice Cane, my best friend after I left home, that he killed."

"Rose..."

"Alice was a beautiful, talented actress—with hair as red as mine. Cal romanced her to get to me, taking advantage of her drinking problem and her emotional instability. Once he'd gotten what he wanted out of her, he killed her, leaving her body in an alley. I never even had a chance to say good-bye. He tried to murder me that night, and I fled New York, joining a theater troupe and traveling around the country. It was more than a year before I found out that she had died."

Rose sat down on a bench, suddenly exhausted from the force of her emotions. Jack sat down beside her, putting an arm around her.

"Rose, I'm sorry about what happened to Alice. But you don't know that Cal killed her—"

"I do know. She was strangled, the same way as I would have been if I hadn't gotten away. He told me how he'd used her. It didn't take much to put two and two together, once I found out she'd been murdered."

"Oh, Rose." Jack didn't know what to say. "He's gone now. He won't hurt anyone ever again. And he didn't hurt your baby. It's fine, growing inside you."

Rose pulled away, shaking her head. "Not this baby. My _first_ baby."

Jack stared at her, stunned. "You...you had another baby? When?"

Rose buried her face in her hands, sobbing, for a moment before she answered him. "In 1912—a couple of months after the Titanic sank. The baby never lived to take a breath. One day, early in June, Cal got mad at me and punched me in the stomach. I miscarried that night."

"Did Cal know about the baby?"

Rose shook her head. "No one knew, not even me. I didn't realize that I was pregnant until I lost the baby." She shuddered. "It hurt so much—at first I didn't know what was happening. When I finally realized what was going on, I couldn't go to anyone for help. Mother would have been shocked and ashamed if she had known that I was pregnant, and I was afraid that a servant would tell her what was going on. I spent the night alone in the bathtub, wondering if I was going to die. I was weak and shaky for weeks afterward. Mother was so worried that I was sick, and wouldn't be able to go through with the wedding. I couldn't go through it, though—not after all that had happened. I could never forgive Cal for killing my unborn child, or for the harm he had done to me. I ran from our wedding, and I've been running ever since. He never knew about the baby, or what he had done. The only person I ever told was Deborah."

Jack pulled her against him, rocking her gently as she cried. He could sympathize with what she had gone through, losing her child alone. It had been almost the same for Amelia—but he had been beside his wife when the baby was stillborn, though he couldn't move to help her or comfort her, while Rose had been all alone. And Amelia had died, while Rose had survived.

He hesitated a moment, another question entering his mind. After a moment, he asked her, "Who was the baby's father?"

Rose shook her head. "I don't know. It could have been Cal—or it could have been you. I lay with both of you at about the right time. I always hoped that it was yours—I would rather have carried your child than Cal's. At least if it was yours, it was conceived in love. With Cal...it was nothing but violence."

Rose put her head on Jack's shoulder. He pulled her closer, stroking her hair. He felt her grief and shared it, knowing that the child she had lost might have been his.


	84. The Prodigal 15

Chapter Eighty-Four

August 30, 1917

A week later, Ruth convinced Jack and Rose to join herself and Nathan at a society function. Rose was reluctant, remembering the reception she had received when she first arrived in Philadelphia, but Ruth coaxed and cajoled her until she finally agreed.

Jack was more interested in attending the society function than Rose was. He had never been to such an event, and was curious as to what went on at one. This society function was a charity gala to support the war effort. Rose couldn't help but think of Will Hutchison, so far away in Europe, and was even more reluctant to attend, but she agreed to go there with Jack. She, at least, was familiar with high society, and could act as an intermediary between her worldly fiancé and the people he would meet. Jack's only experience with high society was the dinner he had attended with Rose, Ruth, and Cal on the Titanic.

There would be a number of important people present, including international representatives, so Ruth bullied her daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law into shopping for proper clothing. Rose actually enjoyed the shopping trip—she had forgotten how much fun it could be to shop with her mother—but Jack stood around, bored, or settled onto the nearest bench or chair to wait while they perused the selections. He, like many men, found shopping dull. When she had finally selected a gown for the event, Rose returned to where she had left Jack, only to find him dozing peacefully, his feet sprawled out for anyone to trip over. His walking stick lay on the bench beside him.

Rose woke Jack, and he reluctantly went with her to select his own attire. He had worn formal clothing only twice in his life—at the dinner on the Titanic, and at his wedding to Amelia—and he still disliked the stiff, hot tuxedo he was expected to wear. Such clothing, he thought, did not belong at summer events. Ruth also purchased a gentleman's walking stick for him, insisting that he leave the intricately carved manzanita walking stick at home when going to the charity gala. He and Rose both balked at the idea, but when Ruth threatened to hide it, leaving him to limp all night, he finally gave in.

On the night of the gala, Jack and Rose came down the stairs together. Jack wore a simple black tuxedo with a white shirt and leaned on the fancy walking stick, while Rose wore an elegant green satin evening gown and had her hair neatly pinned up in a French twist. They looked striking together, though Jack still grumbled about the hot formal attire, and Rose tugged irritably at her corset when she thought no one was looking.

They arrived at the gala in style, in the flashy Daimler-Benz that the Hockleys owned. The four guests emerged from the car with the assistance of the driver, entering the reception hall of the corporate building where the event was being held.

Rose wondered briefly how her mother had gotten them in on such short notice—the event had obviously been planned for months—but realized that Nathan Hockley's money and influence could open a lot of doors. Ruth beamed as she entered the room with her long-lost daughter in tow. People nodded to Ruth and Nathan, some whispering amongst themselves when they saw Rose. A few young women looked at Jack with interest, in spite of the walking stick and limp, but he only had eyes for Rose. Rose recognized some of her former classmates in the crowd, most of them now married and on the arms of their spouses. The children, of course, had been left at home. They would be bored, loud, and disruptive at such an event.

It was all bright and glittery, the people elegantly dressed. Women sported a fantastic array of jewelry, and seemed determined to outdo each other in jewelry and clothing. None of them had changed much since Rose had left them behind five years earlier.

In spite of the glamour of the scene, Rose had to admit, if only to herself, that she would have preferred to spend the evening alone with Jack. They would have had a quiet dinner, played with Rose's baby brother, of whom they were both becoming enamored, and finally retreated to a single bedroom, unwatched by Ruth or Nathan, who insisted upon proper conduct.

Rose sighed softly as they made their way through the room, talking to people and accepting their polite greetings. Many people were shocked to see Rose back, and more than a few were disapproving. How could Ruth Hockley have accepted such an ungrateful child back into her home? After all she had done for Rose, Rose had abandoned her. It was probably Rose's fault that Caledon Hockley had taken his own life—after all, there was only so much a man could be expected to endure, and a faithless fiancée was more than any man, especially a gentleman, should have to put up with.

Rose held her head high, but inside she was seething. How could these people judge her without knowing what had really happened? None of them had ever noticed the desperate situation she had been in, anymore than any of them had really known Cal. If they had, they might not be so quick to condemn—or maybe they would. High society was not known for being forgiving.

Jack noticed her tension and squeezed her hand reassuringly as they took their seats at one of the tables. "Are you all right?" he whispered to her, pulling her chair out for her.

"Oh, Jack, it's these people. I remember again why I left. They're such—such hypocrites. They put on a polite face, and then whisper about you when they think you can't hear them. They're so locked up in their own little world that they don't recognize that things aren't perfect—even in their society. They judge without knowing the facts. It's just like I said on the Titanic—they're floating around in a little champagne bubble, thinking they're gods, but they aren't. They aren't any better than anyone else, and someday they'll find that out."

Jack nodded. He had overheard a few of the comments directed towards Rose, and had heard a few directed towards him. Some people speculated as to whether he was the reason she had left Cal, or whispered about them living in sin. One man had pulled him aside for a moment, telling him to be careful—she might leave him just as she had left Cal, or as she had left her husband. He hadn't bothered to correct the man. He wondered how they would react if he stood up and announced for all to hear what had really happened—that he and Rose had met on the Titanic, that he was the one she had tried to leave her fiancé for on the ship. She hadn't left Cal because of him—that had been Rose's decision alone. Rose hadn't left her husband—she had buried him and gone on alone, and it had been many years before Jack and Rose met again. He was tempted to do so, to put the wagging tongues to rest, but he knew that Rose would be mortified, and wasn't sure that anyone would believe him, anyway.

"Don't listen to them," he told her. "You don't have anything to be ashamed of. Cal was the one who did wrong—not you. Just hold your head high and ignore them, and if that doesn't work..." He smiled, remembering something she had told him. "Just spit in their eyes."

In spite of her anger, Rose couldn't help but laugh at the thought of gossiping women running away, shrieking in horror, as she spit on their elegantly made-up faces. She had told Jack the story of how she had escaped Cal to come to his rescue on the Titanic, spitting in his face and running away. She and Jack had both had a good laugh over that memory.

She smiled at him, slightly soothed. "I'll remember that," she whispered, as the waiters began to serve the food.

There were a number of people at their table that she hadn't met. Rose knew Jack and the Hockleys, of course, and she remembered three people from when she was growing up. But there were also two businessmen and their wives from New York City, one of whom Jack vaguely recognized, and a diplomat from Mexico and his wife and grown daughter. Rose wondered at first if they would be able to communicate, but all spoke fluent, if accented, English. The diplomat's daughter also spoke French, though it wasn't particularly useful at this gathering.

Rose joined in the conversation at first, but she grew increasingly uncomfortable throughout the meal. The diplomat kept staring at her, as though trying to place her, although Rose was certain they had never met before. He had never been to any of the gatherings she had attended as a member of the upper class, and she had never met anyone of note in her brief time in Mexico.

By the time dinner was over, Rose was glad to escape onto the crowded dance floor with Jack. She felt better as part of a crowd, where the elegantly attired foreigner couldn't stare at her so oddly. She and Jack moved slowly around the dance floor, much more slowly than they had once danced, but at a high society function the slower, more staid type of dancing was more acceptable anyway.

"Why did that man keep staring at you?" Jack wanted to know as he slowly led her around the room.

"I don't know. I've never met him before in my life."

"Maybe he's lusting after you."

"In front of his wife and daughter? I doubt it. Besides, that wasn't a lustful look he was giving me. Believe me, I know the difference." She looked at the clock high on the wall. Three more hours to go until the gala was over. "Let's try to avoid him."

"Good idea," Jack began, but at that moment they were interrupted by the subject of their conversation.

"May I cut in?" he asked, not waiting for a reply. He quickly swept Rose away from Jack, Jack glowering at him the whole time.

Rose maintained her calm facade, trying not to show how uncomfortable she was. She looked around for an escape—Jack, her mother, Nathan Hockley, even one of her old acquaintances. But the man was determined to talk to her, and there was no slipping away.

"Rose Calvert, I presume?"

Rose's heart rate sped up as she wondered how he had known her name. Then she remembered that they had been introduced at dinner, but for the life of her she couldn't remember his name.

"I am Mrs. Calvert," she confirmed. "I'm afraid I don't remember your name, Señor."

He laughed lightly. "I see you speak a little Spanish. My name is Felipe Ortiz, diplomat of Mexico."

Rose stared at him, wondering what he could possibly want with her. He soon answered her question.

"Are you familiar with a man named Juan Guerrero?"

_Juan Guerrero?_ Rose thought. _It can't be the same man that I killed in the desert. It just can't. What would an important diplomat know about a common bandit?_

"I...I'm not certain," she told him, struggling to stay calm. The urge to push him away and run was strong, but she waited to hear what he had to say.

"Juan Guerrero was a notorious criminal in Mexico, particularly in the northwestern part. He and his little group of bandits are credited with a body count exceeding one hundred people. There may be others we don't know about. He was one of the most wanted men in Mexico."

"That—that's interesting, Señor, but why are you telling me this?"

"Late in February, his little gang of bandits showed up in one of the desert towns with his body in tow. He had been shot cleanly and at close range through the heart. At first, they tried to take credit for the killing, to earn the reward, but one among them told another story. Guerrero was killed by a red-headed American woman whose plane they shot down in the desert. His story was investigated, of course. It did sound rather fantastic, but the plane was found, as well as the remains of one of the passengers. There was no sign of the woman, but a few news clippings and a letter were found in the wreckage. One of the news clippings contained a photograph of the woman beside the plane, and her name—Rose Calvert. Unless there is more than one Rose Calvert with your features, it can be assumed that you were responsible. Using the letter, investigators tracked you to a large ranch in California, but you had left by then, and no one knew where you had gone. The case was quite notorious, of course, so even those of us well outside the circles of law enforcement heard about it."

Rose jerked away from him, her eyes wide. Her worst nightmare had just come true—someone had tracked her down in connection with Guerrero's death. There might have been a reward for him, but she doubted that a foreigner who should never have been in Mexico in the first place would be allowed to get away with killing a Mexican citizen.

Her shoulders slumped in resignation for a moment as she realized that she was at last getting her comeuppance. Her crime had at last caught up to her. Maybe she should just allow herself to be arrested, stand trial, and face whatever punishment she might be given.

A moment later, she changed her mind. If she had been alone, she might have taken her punishment, but there was another person to consider now. Her baby. She couldn't give birth in some dark, filthy prison. The baby would die there, as surely as her first baby had died—but it would be all the worse, for it would have a chance to be born.

"Mrs. Calvert, I will contact the authorities as soon as I can, so that—"

"No!" Rose's exclamation sounded above the voices and laughter and music. People stopped to stare at her. "Stay away from me! He was trying to kill me! Do you understand?"

And without waiting for another word from Señor Ortiz, she pushed her way through the crowd, her high heels clicking loudly on the floor as she ran from the reception hall.


	85. The Prodigal 16

Chapter Eighty-Five

Jack turned, surprised, as Rose darted past him. Her angry, frightened exclamation had been audible above the sounds of music playing and people talking, but he had no idea what had upset her so.

Señor Ortiz rushed past him, pursuing the fleeing woman. As he did so, Jack reached out and grabbed his arm, nearly unbalancing both of them. As the man turned, shocked, Jack grabbed his collar.

"What in the hell did you say to her?" he demanded, his voice rising above the shocked whispers and murmurs of people staring in the direction Rose had gone.

Ortiz shoved him away. "All I did was offer her a reward."

"A reward? For what? Did you proposition her?"

"Proposition her?" Ortiz looked at Jack as though he had lost his mind. "Far from it. She killed a man in Mexico for whom there was a large bounty offered. Juan Guerrero was a notorious criminal—"

"Shit! That was the worst thing you could possibly have said to her. She's never forgiven herself for killing him." Jack hurried in the direction Rose had run, calling after her. "Rose! Rose!"

He reached the entrance to the reception hall, nearly knocking over the coat check girl in his haste. There was no sign of Rose, only the still-audible clacking of her high-heeled shoes on the pavement as she fled.

"Go get the Hockleys! Now!" he demanded of Señor Ortiz. "We have to stop her before she runs away again."

"I'm sure there's nothing to worry about—"

"Do what I say!"

Ortiz hurried off. Jack didn't realize that he was brandishing his walking stick threateningly until he saw the crowd of people staring at him. Slowly, he lowered it to the floor, leaning on it as the full realization of what had just happened sank into him. Rose was trying to run again. If they didn't reach the Hockley mansion before she did, it was doubtful that they would ever find her. She would change her name and appearance, disappearing before anyone could track her down.

He wasn't entirely certain why she was so upset, but he knew that he couldn't let her run away again. Not after they had finally found each other again. Not when she was expecting a child.

The Hockleys came rushing up, Señor Ortiz and his family in hot pursuit. "What happened?" Ruth demanded. "Where did Rose go?"

"I think she went back to the mansion," Jack told her, gesturing in the direction he had heard the footsteps in. "She's very upset..."

"Maybe we should just leave her alone for a while, then," Nathan suggested. "Give her a chance to calm down."

Jack shook his head. "If we don't hurry, she's going to run off again. Chances are we'll never find her if she does."

"What do you mean, she'll run off again?" Ruth wanted to know.

"Every time things go wrong, she runs. That's what she's been doing for the last five years. Running away."

"My God," Ruth whispered, as the full implications hit her. "She's expecting a child. She can't just disappear."

"She'll try—and she'll probably succeed," Jack told them grimly. "She's hidden for years. Only a few people have ever seen her once she decided to leave a place behind."

"We're leaving now," Ruth decided. "Nathan, have the car brought around."

Nathan looked reluctant, still not convinced that they needed to go after Rose, but a cutting glare from his wife changed his mind. He quickly directed one of the waiters to go to the parking area and have his chauffeur bring the car around.

Jack paced agitatedly while they waited, his limp becoming more pronounced as he worried about what Rose might do and where she might go. Rose was a strong, self-sufficient woman who could take care of herself—but it wasn't just her anymore. There was a baby to think about. She had already lost one child; he didn't think she could bear to lose another. And he didn't want to think about losing her again.

The Hockley car pulled up, the chauffeur hurrying to open the doors for them. The Ortiz car was right behind it. In minutes, they were on their way to the Hockleys' home.

Rose threw open the front door with a bang, then flew down the hall and up the stairs. She was reminded acutely of another day when she had done the same thing in a different mansion in Philadelphia. Then, she had been running from Cal and the life that was being forced upon her. Now, she was fleeing for the sake of her baby.

She didn't want to run again. Not this time. Not when she was beginning to find peace again. In just a few weeks, she and Jack were to be married. She had at last reconciled with her mother, and was again beginning to think of what good things the future might hold.

But she didn't have a choice. She couldn't bring her baby into the world in some dark, dirty prison in a foreign country. It would die there—or it would be taken from her and given to someone who could raise it properly. Either way, she would lose the child she had wanted for so long.

Rose began to toss her belongings into her bag, cramming everything that she could into it. She didn't bother to take the time to change her clothes. She had to get away, and quickly. Her baby was depending upon her.

Ellen knocked at Rose's door. "Mrs. Calvert, are you all right?"

She froze, trying to decide what to do. Ellen had helped her to escape from her marriage to Cal, but the situation was different this time. She couldn't ask the young woman to help her escape from the law. She might not help, and even if she did, it could mean trouble for her. Rose's troubles were her own fault; she couldn't pull anyone else into them.

Ellen knocked again. "Mrs. Calvert?"

Voices came from downstairs—Jack, Ruth, Nathan...Señor Ortiz.

Panic welled up inside Rose. Grabbing her half-packed bag, she slammed it shut, running to the door. She didn't have everything she needed, but it didn't matter. She had survived by her wits before, and she would again.

"Mrs. Calvert?" Ellen looked at her in shock as Rose pushed her aside and ran past her, eyes darting from side to side. She had never seen Rose so upset—she was shaking with fear, her face red from the long run in the summer heat.

Rose stopped suddenly, whirling around to face her. "The servant's staircase—where is it?" she demanded, staring at Ellen intently.

Before the maid could respond, Nathan and Ruth Hockley appeared at the top of the stairs, Señor Ortiz right behind them. Rose could hear the sound of Jack's walking stick thumping on the stairs as he followed them.

Not waiting for Ellen's answer, Rose ran down the hall. She could hear her mother shouting after her to stop, but she paid her no heed. She had to get away. She had to.

Rose began throwing open doors, looking for an escape route. She wasn't yet completely familiar with the huge mansion, and had no idea where the back staircase might be. There had to be one; the servants rarely used the same staircase as the owners of the house, and they moved up and down the stairs at random.

The end of the hallway loomed before her. There were three doors left. Looking behind her, she could see that the others were fast closing in on her. Nathan looked bewildered, Ruth upset, and Señor Ortiz determined. Jack called her name as she picked up speed, determined to escape.

Throwing open the first door, she jumped back as a shriek came from the room—she had interrupted a pair of servants enjoying a tryst while their employers were away. Darting on, she threw open the last door on the left. There was no more time or space to run.

Slamming the door behind her, she ran inside—only to find herself trapped. There was no way out of the room, and no lock on the door. There was no escape.

Rose ran to the one window and looked out, but immediately realized that there was no way to climb down. She was on the second floor, with nothing between the window and the ground but sheer wall. There was no way to lower herself to the ground, and she couldn't risk jumping.

She whirled around as the door flew open. Señor Ortiz approached her.

"Mrs. Calvert—"

"Stay back!" she shouted, her voice shrill with panic. "Don't come any closer!"

He moved closer, not sure how to handle her. She was hysterical, her eyes wide with panic. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why she was so frightened.

Instinctively, Rose reached for the nearest object—a silver candlestick. With all her strength, she grabbed it, trying to bring it down on Ortiz' head.

Abruptly, the candlestick was knocked from her hand. Rose gasped in shock as Jack pushed her away from the shelf of knickknacks, keeping her from grabbing another weapon. Knocked off balance, she felt herself falling, only to be caught by another pair of arms.

Ruth steadied her daughter as Rose struggled to escape. She had never witnessed such an emotional display. Rose was screaming, her face red from exertion. She jerked wildly against her mother's grip, trying desperately to escape.

Jack and Nathan helped Ruth restrain her daughter. Rose was struggling hysterically, her face contorted with anger, fear, and desperation—a dangerous combination. There was no telling what she might do.

"Rose, stop!" Jack shouted. "It's all right!"

"The hell it is!" Rose shouted back. "I'm not going to prison! I won't! My baby will die there!"

"Prison?" Ruth asked. "What are you talking about?"

"I didn't want to kill that man! It was self-defense! Don't you understand? Don't I even get a fair trial?"

"You're not going to prison," Señor Ortiz told her. His wife and daughter were watching the whole scene in shock.

"Not if I can help—" Rose broke off, Ortiz' words slowly penetrating her mind. "What do you mean, I'm not going to prison?" She stopped struggling, but remained tense, ready to break free at the slightest provocation.

"Juan Guerrero was the most wanted man in Mexico. He was also wanted in several border towns in the United States. There was a substantial reward for his capture, dead or alive, equivalent to about five thousand dollars. Once I've contacted the proper authorities, they'll send you the reward."

_A reward?_ Rose thought. _I'm being rewarded for taking someone's life? Oh, God. I can't take this. I just wanted it to be forgotten. I'll never be able to get away from it now._

Her breathing came faster and faster as the news sank into her mind. She felt dizzy, light-headed. "Rose? Are you going to be all right?" Jack asked, but she heard him as though from a great distance. "Rose, calm down—"

It was too late. Even as Jack said the words, Rose crumpled, fainting into her mother's arms.

Some time later, Rose awakened in her bedroom. She lying atop her bed, her clothing loosened and a light blanket covering her. Ellen was nearby, keeping watch. When she saw that Rose was awake, she slipped from the room, hurrying to tell Ruth.

Rose turned her head when she felt someone take her hands. Jack was sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed in his formal attire. He was looking at her with worry, which changed to relief when he saw that she was awake.

"How do you feel?" he asked, stroking her hands.

"I...I..." Rose didn't know what to say. Suddenly overwhelmed, she burst into tears, tossing the blanket aside and flinging herself into Jack's arms.

Jack held her close. "Shh, Rose, shh. It's all right. Everything is going to be all right."

"I promised I wouldn't run again, but I had to. I couldn't give birth to our baby in prison. It would die there—or be taken away. I've already lost one child—I couldn't lose this one, too."

"You're not going to prison, Rose. Whatever gave you the idea that you were?"

"Señor Ortiz told me that he was going to contact the authorities..."

"About the reward."

"I didn't know that I was going to be rewarded. He mentioned a reward, but who would give a foreigner who killed a citizen a reward?"

"He was wanted on both sides of the border, Rose. You're a heroine."

"No, I'm not. I'm a murderer. I didn't have to kill him—I could have shot him someplace that would have stopped him, but not killed him. He wasn't alone. The others could have helped him—if they were awake enough. They were all drunk, but still—"

"But he killed a lot of innocent people. If you hadn't killed him, someone else would have eventually. At least you had a good reason. You didn't do it for the money."

"I don't want the money. No one should be rewarded for murder."

"It wasn't murder. It was self-defense. You did it to survive."

"It was murder. I killed him, and I don't think I'll ever forgive myself. Other people might think it was an act of heroism, but I'll always know the truth. No one should ever kill another person, Jack. You don't know how it feels. I took away his life, everything that he was and might have been in the future. It was no different from Cal killing those women. Neither of us had the right to decide who would live and who would die, no matter why we did it."

"Cal had a choice when he killed those women. Guerrero had a choice when he killed all those people. You never had a choice. It was you or him, and it was better that you lived than him. You have a conscience. You care about other people, and you won't deliberately hurt them like he did. I talked to Señor Ortiz while you were unconscious. Juan Guerrero's reputation preceded him. He had no conscience. People meant nothing to him. He would as soon kill someone as look at them. You're not like that."

"Maybe not, but it still doesn't excuse what I did. And what is choice, really? Did Cal really have a choice when he killed those women? He was a madman, Jack. He might have believed that what he was doing was right. How do I know that Guerrero was any different?"

"You don't. You never will." Jack spoke to her steadily. "But you can't change what happened. Whatever his reasons were, he was a dangerous predator, one that the world is better off without. If nothing else, you should accept the reward money because you did the world a favor, removing a dangerous person from it."

"He'll only be replaced by another. There's bad people all over the world."

"But more who are good."

"I still don't want that reward. It's blood money, a payment for taking the life of someone else."

Jack sighed. "Rose, Señor Ortiz has already sent a telegram to the authorities in Mexico. Your reward should arrive soon."

"No!"

"You deserve it, after what he and his gang put you through. It's time to let go of your guilt."

"I can't, Jack. I can't let go of my guilt any more than I can let go of my memories. He'll always be there in my mind—just like Marietta. And if I accept the money as payment for what his gang put me through, then I'm nothing more than a whore—taking money in exchange for my favors. I won't accept it. I can't."

"I don't think you have much of a choice."

"I've always had a choice. I won't accept it. That's all there is to it." She pulled away from him, lying down and pulling the blanket over herself. "Leave, Jack. I want to be alone."


	86. The Prodigal 17

Chapter Eighty-Six

In the days following her encounter with Ortiz, Rose remained despondent. For the first two days, in spite of the pleas of Jack and Ruth, she refused to leave her room, spending most of her time lying in bed, staring unseeing at the ceiling, her mind far away. She slept little, and ate even less, until Ruth pointed out that not eating would harm her baby.

On the third day, Rose finally left her room, joining the others for meals and sitting with them in the evenings, curled into Jack's arms, but it wasn't the same. The fire had gone out of her.

She spent time with the others, spoke to them, but it was as though she wasn't really there. Her heart wasn't in it, and the only person who could make her smile was her baby brother. Worried, Jack accompanied her everywhere, refusing to give up on her, though Rose didn't understand why. Why would he be so adamant about staying at her side, knowing what she had done?

At the end of that week, Rose's reward arrived in the mail. Usually, mail took much longer to be delivered, but the reward for the death of Juan Guerrero was considered so important that it was sent as quickly as possible.

Things finally came to a head the day the reward arrived. Jack and Rose were sitting together in the dining room, eating lunch, when Ellen brought the package to Rose. Hands trembling, Rose took it from her, knowing as soon as she saw the return address what it was.

"Rose? What is it?" Jack leaned toward her, curious about what she had received.

Rose just stared at the package for a moment before opening it. She dropped the cardboard and paper to the side, revealing two bundles of one hundred dollar bills, twenty-five in each bundle.

"Rose? Are you all right?" Jack could see what it was now.

For the first time in a week, Rose showed a reaction. Her face paling, she lifted the two bundles of money, the five thousand dollar reward for taking the life of Juan Guerrero. She stared at the money, trembling.

"Rose?"

Rose didn't look up. Staring at the money, she gave a low moan of distress worse than any scream. Dropping the bundles, she bolted to her feet and ran from the dining room, never saying a word.

Ruth stopped, surprised, as Rose darted past her, her breathing ragged and choked. Not even looking at her mother, Rose ran down the hall and threw the door open, racing into the garden, her place of refuge for the past few days.

Startled at Rose's behavior, Ruth looked into the dining room. Jack had gathered the money up and wrapped it in the cardboard and paper it had been shipped in. He looked up when she came in.

"What happened to my daughter?" Ruth asked, suspecting what it was but still uncertain.

"She got her reward," Jack replied shortly, grabbing his walking stick and pulling himself to his feet. Limping noticeably, he brushed past Ruth, heading in the direction Rose had gone.

Jack found Rose sitting on a bench beneath a vine-covered arch in the garden. She was rocking herself gently back and forth, staring blankly at the surrounding foliage while silent tears ran down her face.

Jack didn't say anything, but only sat down beside her, putting his arms around her shaking form.

At last, Rose broke the silence.

"Why? Why is violence and killing accepted and even rewarded? It just...doesn't seem right. I didn't want to kill Guerrero; I did it to survive. Why am I being rewarded? Every day, people hurt each other, kill each other—and it never seems to end. Sometimes it's accepted, like self-defense or war, but no one involved is ever left untouched. There's always sorrow and suffering and bitterness, no matter how right one side thinks they are. And even for the person who did the killing—if they have any kind of conscience, they'll never be able to forget. Killing someone...is the worst crime a person can commit. They take someone else's life away—something that can never be replaced. Taking a life, whatever the reason, does not make a person a hero." She drew a deep, shuddering breath. "There was nothing heroic about what I did. I wish I had never received that reward. I don't deserve it; no one should be rewarded for that. Why do people reward those who harm others? Why?!"

Jack shook his head, not really sure how to respond. "I don't know, Rose. Not everyone who harms others is rewarded. Guerrero certainly wasn't."

Rose laid her head against his shoulder. "Some people can get away with such things. Guerrero got away with it for a long time, and would probably have gotten away with it longer if I hadn't grabbed his gun. Had the circumstances been a little different, he might have been considered a hero himself. Some people, because of their station in life, or politics, or what have you, wind up being rewarded for doing wrong." She sat up, hugging herself. "No one would have listened if I had spoken out about the way Cal hurt me—because of his station in life. He could do as he pleased, just so long as he was discreet about it. He killed Alice, and there are those who would have thought he had done the right thing, because Alice was one of those women considered a scourge on society—a vaudeville actress and sometimes prostitute, a woman who defied society's morals and did as she pleased—even though it was the society itself that helped shape what she was. When men go to war, no one punishes them for their actions—except for the other side, who are equally guilty. Those who are the most successful, those who lead their countries into war, are honored and respected—never mind the hundreds or thousands of people whose lives will never be the same." For the first time, she looked at Jack. "And then there are those who are simply rewarded for causing harm—like me. People will never learn not to harm each other if no one speaks out and puts a stop to it—but somehow I doubt that will ever happen."

Jack didn't know what to say. Instinctively, he recognized the wisdom in her words—he had seen far too much of fighting in his life—but he didn't know how to respond. He didn't have the words. All he could do was pull Rose close, trying to protect her from a world she had seen far too much of.

Rose remained calm but sad in the week that followed. At her assent, Jack put the reward money into a bank until she was ready to decide what to do with it. She wanted nothing to do with the reward, but it existed, and eventually she would have to think about what she wanted done with it. Until then, however, she wanted only to forget about it.

Ruth, too, was doing her part to try to brighten up her daughter's life. Unbeknownst to either Rose or Jack, she had been busily planning their wedding. She knew that Rose would probably be upset with her for taking charge, but something had to be done. Neither Jack nor Rose were doing any planning, and they needed to be married soon, lest Rose waddle down the aisle instead of walk.

While Jack and Rose had been concentrating upon Rose's misery, Ruth had set a date for her daughter's wedding and arranged for a church and a minister. That done, she had thrown herself into finding the perfect flowers and caterers, as well as planning the reception and inviting a few people that she knew Rose was fond of—including the Hutchisons and the Hills.

Rose was walking alone in the garden the morning her guests arrived; it was a place of solace for her, a place where everything was natural and alive, and at peace. She had no idea that her wedding had been planned for her, or that any guests had been invited, so she looked up in surprise when Deborah called her name.

"Rosie!" Deborah wheeled herself down the path, pushing aside branches and vines.

"Debbie?!" Rose couldn't hide her surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Grace and I are here for your wedding. So are Mother and Father. Mother is making your wedding dress, my matron-of-honor dress—remember Rosie, you agreed that I could be your matron-of-honor again—and Grace's flower girl dress."

Rose was suddenly suspicious. _So that's why Mother has been so cheerful. She loves nothing better than planning a big social event._ "Ah...when exactly is this wedding supposed to take place?"

Deborah gave her a confused look. "A week from today, Rosie. Your mother sent us the invitations."

So Ruth had planned the wedding. It couldn't have been anyone else, for Jack would have told her if he was planning their wedding.

She sighed, sinking down on the bench. "Mother planned the whole thing. I didn't know anything about it."

It occurred to Rose that she should be angry at Ruth for once again interfering in her life, but for some reason, she wasn't. This time, her mother truly had Rose's best interests in mind; there was no gain in it for her.

"Does Jack know?" Rose asked Deborah, gesturing for her to move her wheelchair closer.

Deborah nodded. "He does now. He wasn't too pleased to find out that everything had been planned behind the backs of you two, but agreed to go with things the way your mother planned them if you agreed."

Rose sighed, considering. After all the trouble Ruth had gone to, it seemed ungrateful of her to reject the wedding her mother had planned—and after all, this time she herself had chosen the groom. Of course, Rose intended to have a certain amount of input in the wedding, no matter how her mother objected.

"I'll do it," she finally agreed, nodding her head. She was ready to go into the house and speak with Ruth, but Deborah's voice stopped her.

"Rosie..."

Rose settled back onto the bench, looking at her best friend. "Yes?"

"Jack told me about what happened...with Señor Ortiz and the reward. He said you felt pretty guilty about it."

Rose nodded. Guilty was an understatement. "I don't understand why I was rewarded for killing Guerrero—even though he was a notorious outlaw. It was so strange—such a coincidence that I met Señor Ortiz at that banquet, and he recognized me from the pictures taken from the wreckage of the plane. I just want to forget it, let it be in the past—but I can't. Even if I could, there would always be some reminder of what I did." She sighed. "This isn't—isn't something I can run from. No matter where I go, he'll always haunt me. I'll remember this for the rest of my life."

"Rosie, you never could run away from your troubles. They were always with you, because they had become a part of you, and you can't run away from yourself." She paused, looking seriously at Rose. "Are you going to be all right?"

Rose nodded, understanding what Deborah was asking. "Debbie, I won't end my own life. I promise you that. I'm expecting a baby, and I have a man who loves me enough to give up everything for me. I have Mother, and a new baby brother, and you. I won't hurt you that way. No, I intend to stay alive, for as long as God wills it."

Deborah smiled, reaching out to squeeze Rose's hand reassuringly. "Rosie, did you ever consider that everything happens for a reason?"

Rose looked at her, not understanding what she meant.

Deborah spoke softly. "Maybe, Rosie, you were found and rewarded so that you could bring something good out of what happened."

Grace called from the house, looking for her mother, and Deborah wheeled herself back, looking toward the house. "Think about what I said, Rosie. Maybe some good can come of all this."

Rose sat in the garden for a long time, thinking about Deborah's words. A part of her couldn't believe in what her best friend had said, but another part, a stronger, more optimistic part, wondered if Deborah might be right, if perhaps she could bring some good out of the bad. Could she do it? Did she have the courage to try?

Slowly, Rose got to her feet, ready to leave the garden. It was past noon now, the sun high overhead, warming even the cool September day. The sorrow and guilt were still inside her, but they were being pushed aside by another emotion—hope. Hope that she could bring some good out of the bad, hope that through her experiences, she could make a better life possible—not just for herself, but for others, too.

As she made her way down the path, she saw Jack standing just inside the gate, waiting for her. He was leaning on his walking stick, but he straightened when she came toward him. For the first time in weeks, Rose smiled, taking his hand as he reached out and drew her toward him.

They embraced, rejoicing in their newfound hope and life. Rose put her hand to Jack's face, whispering softly.

"I think I'm going to be all right now."


	87. The Prodigal 18

Chapter Eighty-Seven

September 21, 1917

Rose stood at the back of the church, bouquet in hand. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of the flowers and adjusting the skirt of her lavender silk gown. Ruth and Belinda had both objected to the gown Rose had chosen, but lavender had always been one of her favorite colors, and it was appropriate for a bridal gown this time. Both women had tried to talk her into wearing white, but Rose had refused. She had worn white twice before, and it just didn't seem right this time. Besides, she had pointed out, no one expected her to be pure. She was, after all, a widow.

Deborah and Grace were ahead of her, both dressed in pale pink silk dresses. Grace had a basket of pink, lavender, and white flower petals, while her mother sat in her wheelchair, waiting for the music to begin. She turned and gave Rose a smile as the first notes sounded.

Rose watched Grace start up the aisle, scattering flower petals as she went. Deborah wheeled herself after her daughter, allowing Grace to go first but staying close behind. Grace was, after all, only three years old, and couldn't always be trusted to behave.

As her flower girl and matron of honor made their way toward the front of the church, Rose looked up the aisle toward the man waiting for her. It was a strange feeling, being here in this church where she had almost married Cal five years earlier. The church was the same, the same high ceiling and stained glass windows, but the minister was different—and so were the people watching her get married. Gone were the crowds of society members, gathered for one of the biggest social events of the season. In their place were a few friends and family members. The only people who had been present for her wedding to Cal who were here now were Nathan and Ruth.

Only a few people were gathered for this wedding. Nathan and Ruth Hockley and their infant son, Gregory and Belinda Hill, Deborah and Grace, the servants of the Hills and Hutchisons who had accompanied them to Philadelphia, many of whom Rose knew well, and the Hockley servants, who Rose and Jack had insisted be invited.

Ellen and Ruth had helped Rose get ready for the wedding, helping her into the elegant gown. Ruth had been dismayed at Rose's refusal to wear a corset, but Rose had never liked the tight, restrictive undergarments, and had rarely worn them in the years she had been away, except for on stage. Nor did she consider them to be healthy for a pregnant woman to wear. Who knew how being squeezed in such a way might affect the baby?

As the first notes of the bridal march sounded, Rose stepped forward. It was the same church, the same music—but it was different. So very, very different.

She had been terrified the first time, her heart pounding with dread as she made her way toward Cal. Now, her heart pounded with joy and anticipation as she made her way up that same aisle toward Jack. There was no fear this time, no hesitation, only the calm, confident feeling that came with knowing she had made the right decision.

Rose's steps were steady, even, and graceful as she walked up the aisle. Jack stood at the altar, waiting for her, his eyes taking in her beauty as she approached him. The sun pouring through the huge windows made her seem to glow as she walked the last few feet to join him.

Before he thought about it, Jack stepped down to meet her, his hand out. Rose smiled, her eyes alight with love, as she handed her bouquet to Deborah and took Jack's hand.

The couple turned to the minister, their hands still joined. Jack leaned slightly on the elegant walking stick Ruth had bought for him before the gala, while Rose stood proudly beside him, her head high and her face joyful.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here this day..."

Jack squeezed Rose's hand, the love in his eyes unmistakable. His marriage to Amelia had been a mistake, but this time it was right. He had loved Rose from the moment he first saw her, far above him on board the Titanic, and she had remained in his heart from that time on. Now, more than five years later, they were together again. Circumstances beyond their control had separated them, but fate had brought them back together.

"Do you, Jack Dawson, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, for richer or for poorer, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, to love, honor, and cherish, until death do you part?"

Jack responded without hesitation. "I do."

"And do you, Rose Calvert, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, for richer or for poorer, for better or for worse, in sickness and health, to love, honor, and cherish, until death do you part?"

Rose's response was the same. "I do."

"Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

As their lips met, Rose's heart beat with joy. She had run from Cal, and her marriage to Robert had lasted only a few short months, but this time, she somehow knew, this time truly would be forever.


	88. The Prodigal 19

Chapter Eighty-Eight

The next week was a blissful one for Jack and Rose. Nathan and Ruth gave them the use of the guesthouse for a week, with a couple of servants to tend to them and strict orders that they not otherwise be disturbed. For the first time, they were able to be alone together as long as they wanted, with no one to disturb them, and no day-to-day concerns to take away from their time together. They spent their days wandering through Philadelphia, visiting museums and parks, while the nights they spent alone together, sharing in the boundless love and passion they had felt for so long.

At the end of the week, when they returned to the main house, they were surprised to find Deborah and Grace waiting for them. The Hills had returned to San Francisco, but the Hutchisons had stayed on with the Hockleys, waiting for Jack and Rose to return.

"So, Rosie," Deborah asked when they were alone, "how is married life?" She smiled, looking at Rose's content expression.

"It's wonderful, Debbie," Rose told her, her face lighting up. "I've never been so happy. Jack is...wonderful. I've loved him for years, and we're finally together."

"I'm glad for you, Rosie. You've been through so much--you deserve some happiness."

"Sometimes it's hard to believe that he's really here, that we're really together. When I first saw him on the highway in California, I was sure I had lost my mind—or was seeing a ghost. I'd thought he was dead. I was so surprised, I stumbled backward and fell in the mud."

Deborah laughed. "And the first time you met him, you almost fell off the ship."

"Actually, I'd seen him before that moment. I'd said some very impolite things at lunch, and gone outside to mope. Jack saw me from the third class deck, and for some reason, we couldn't stop staring at each other. It was almost as though we knew each other, though we'd never seen each other before. Then Cal came up to me, and I went back inside."

"Did Cal notice you staring at Jack?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure. He came to my room that night, and was especially brutal, but he could have been angry with me for being so rude at lunch. It didn't take much to set him off. But that was what drove me to try to jump off the ship, and that was when I met Jack."

"It's strange how things work out sometimes," Deborah agreed. "If I hadn't been injured in the earthquake, Mother and Father would never have dragged me from place to place seeking a cure, and Father would never have opened a branch of the business in Los Angeles. If we hadn't lived in Los Angeles, I would never have met Will."

"How is he? Have you heard from him recently?"

Deborah shook her head sadly. "Not in a long time. Not since before you arrived in San Francisco. Oh, Rosie, what if something has happened to him? What if he doesn't come back? What will I do?"

Rose was silent for a moment, thinking. "You'll go on, Debbie, like you have before. You'll be strong, and keep on living, and raise Grace. I've heard it said that women are the weaker sex, but I don't believe it's true. We're the ones who keep going when hope is gone, who raise up our children and make homes for them, no matter what happens. We're the strong ones. If...God forbid...something has happened to Will, you'll survive. It's hard to lose those you love, but you will survive." She put a hand on Deborah's arm. "You've been away from home for several weeks. He could have written in that time, but you haven't been home to receive his letter."

"I hope so, Rosie. God, I hope so. I miss him so much. Grace asks constantly when he's coming home. I don't if she understands. He always went away on business a few times a year, so she was used to him being gone for short times, but he's been away since May. I wish he were here. I don't care if he would be breaking the law, or going against the war effort—I want him home. There's so much waiting for him at home—why does he need to fight in that stupid war, anyway? He's a businessman. He could do so much good here in the United States..."

"Don't give up hope, Debbie," Rose told her, reaching out to hug her best friend. "He'll come home. I know he will. You just have to keep hoping. The strangest things happen sometimes--I should know. Why, he could be on his way home now."

Deborah shook her head. "I doubt it. The war is going full force, so I doubt he could go home without being seriously injured--and I would have been notified about that. Even if it had happened when I was away, one of the servants would have sent me a telegram. I can't help but worry, Rosie. I love him."

"I know you do, Debbie. I know. You just have to keep hoping that everything will be all right. It's all you really can do."

That afternoon, Rose was sitting on the parlor floor, playing with baby Nathan. Grace giggled delightedly, waving a brightly colored toy in front of the baby, whose still unfocused eyes tried to follow the object. Deborah sat nearby, watching the children with a smile.

The doorbell rang downstairs, but both women ignored it. A servant would get the door, and go to fetch whomever the person was there to see. No one was expected, so it was probably a neighbor, business associate, or salesman.

The butler, James, stepped into the parlor a moment later. "You have a visitor, Mrs. Hutchison."

"A visitor?" Deborah glanced at Rose, wondering who could possibly be visiting her here in Philadelphia. Then, her eyes widened with dread. "Rosie..."

Rose stood, looking at James. "Could you please watch the children for a moment, James? We'll be back as soon as we can." If the visitor was indeed here for the reason Deborah suspected, Rose wasn't going to let her receive the news alone. "I'll come with you, Debbie."

"Thank you, Rosie." Deborah wheeled herself into the hallway, fearing what the visitor might have to say. No one in Philadelphia would have come to visit her, and her parents and friends were in San Francisco. It could only be a telegram, bringing bad news--that something had happened to Will. He could be seriously injured, or worse. She remembered Rose's words about strength, but was more glad now than ever that Rose was with her. She didn't think she could face the news alone.

Jack stepped out of the kitchen, where he had been eating a mid-afternoon snack, just in time to see the two women go by, their expressions grim. Wondering what was going on, he followed them, catching up as they reached the front door.

"Rose? Deborah? What's going on?"

Deborah glanced at him, her mouth trembling, before slowly opening the door.

In an instant, her expression changed. Shock, then joy, crossed her face. Before Jack could say a word, she snatched his walking stick from him, then tugged her skirt up, revealing the leg braces she had been wearing for months. And then, as everyone stared in wonder, Deborah struggled to her feet, then stumbled through the door into Will's arms.


	89. The Prodigal 20

Chapter Eighty-Nine

Instinctively, Will caught Deborah as her legs, never to be strong, collapsed under her. He held her close, knowing that he had just witnessed a miracle. Deborah, confined to a wheelchair for the past eleven years, had walked through the door to meet him.

Jack and Rose stared at them, their eyes wide. For how long had Deborah practiced in order to be able to walk those few steps? Then Rose's face broke into a smile, and she rushed forward, hugging her best friend, who had just done the impossible.

Jack was no less impressed. He had had to learn to walk again himself after he recovered from the polio, and knew how much work it took to be able to recover from paralysis enough to walk. It was even harder for victims of spinal cord injuries to relearn how to walk than it had been for him. Few were able to, and even fewer relearned this skill so many years after the injury. Deborah had indeed been blessed.

Deborah clung to Will, sobbing with joy and relief. Of all the things that could have happened, she had never thought he would show up on the Hockleys' doorstep, looking for her. She didn't know how he had come to be sent home, nor did she care. The important thing was that he was back.

Will steadied his wife, covering her face with kisses, paying no attention to the two people watching them. He had never wanted to leave her, and now that he was back, he never would again.

At last, Will lifted Deborah and set her back in her wheelchair. Those few steps she had taken were all she would be able to accomplish, but it was more than either had ever thought possible. Deborah wiped her eyes, casting Will a broad smile, as she turned to look at Jack and Rose.

"Will, this is Jack Dawson—Rose's new husband. Jack, this is my husband, Will Hutchison." Suddenly remembering, she handed Jack his walking stick back, then looked back at her husband, her eyes alight with joy. "Will..."

They were interrupted by a little voice. "Mommy?" Grace spoke uncertainly. She had sneaked away from the butler to see what was going on. Dashing down the hall, she called louder. "Mommy!" Then she saw Will. "Daddy!" she shrieked, launching herself at her father.

Will caught her, sweeping her up in his arms. "Grace!"

"I thought you weren't coming back."

"I am back, sweetie. I won't be going away again."

"Good." She gave her father a kiss on the cheek, then squirmed around to see her mother. "Mommy! Daddy's home!"

"I know he is, Grace. I know. Isn't it wonderful?"

Will set Grace down, looking up as the butler walked into the foyer, looking distressed at losing sight of the three-year-old escape artist. Baby Nathan was cradled awkwardly in his arms.

"James, thank you for watching them." Rose's eyes sparkled. "Lori will take care of them now." She nodded to the maid, who was hurrying down the hall, attracted by the commotion.

"Go with Lori now, Grace," Deborah told her. "We'll all be together later, all right?"

"All right, Mommy." Grace followed Lori reluctantly, looking back every few steps at her parents.

"Will..." Deborah began again. "When...how...did you come back?" Her eyes took on an anxious look, fearing that he had been hurt. He didn't appear to be injured, but looks could be deceiving.

"Why don't we all sit down somewhere?" Will asked. He handed his bags to James, who nodded and took them toward the stairs.

"That's a good idea," Rose agreed. "I'll show you where the parlor is."

When they were all comfortably seated in the parlor, Will began his story.

"How did you get sent home, Will?" Deborah asked again. "Are you all right? How long have you been back?"

"I'm fine," he told her. "Your father pulled a few strings to get me sent home. I know that many people wouldn't approve, but I was glad to go. There were a few times when I didn't think I'd get home, so when I got the notice that I was to be sent home, I was more than relieved."

"I don't care if it's right or wrong," Deborah told him. "I'm just glad you're home. I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you, too," he told her, looking at her lovingly. "I think that's why I was sent home. Your father never could deny his little girl anything, even if getting it required breaking a few laws and greasing the right palms."

"And so he got you to come home to me." Deborah's eyes softened. "Will, I'm so glad."

He stood, lifting her from the wheelchair and setting her in his lap. "I got back to the United States ten days ago. I sent a letter that I was coming home..."

"But I was here, so I didn't get it. I was so worried—I hadn't heard from you in so long."

"I'm all right, Debbie. I'm back now." He paused, then went on. "I took the train to San Francisco after the ship docked, and then turned around and went to Philadelphia. I couldn't wait for you to come home." He looked at her. "And what about you? What's happened while I was gone? You've learned to walk again. I never thought you would..."

"I never did, either. I don't know if I will ever be able to walk more than a few steps, but I've learned not to assume I know what the future will hold." She embraced him, then looked at Jack and Rose. "For several years now, I've slowly been able to feel more and more. Never much, but enough to let me know that things were slowly healing, if only a little. A few months ago, I realized that I had a little feeling in my hips. I could even move them a little, and my legs could move a little with them. It wasn't until August, though, that I began to try to walk again. I have Jack Dawson to thank for that, in more ways than one. Years ago, he drew me at the Santa Monica Pier, sitting in my wheelchair, and told me that I should never give up. I never forgot those words. Then, Rose came to San Francisco in August, and Jack followed a couple of days later. Rose had told me that he had been sickened in the polio epidemic in New York last year, and he confirmed it.

"And yet, even with everything that had happened, he had gone on with life, learned to walk again. If someone who had been through so much could do it, I could at least try. I bought leg braces and crutches, and practiced every day, exercising my legs until they grew stronger. I had to use my hands to move them at first, but after a while they were strong enough to move a little on their own. Then I started teaching myself to walk again, wearing the leg braces and leaning on the crutches. At first, it was all I could do to stand, supporting my weight on a table, but one day I leaned on the crutches and didn't fall. The next day, I took my first step in eleven years. I still can't move my knees, or feel anything besides my hips and a few toes, but the braces helped. I wanted you to be the first to know what I had accomplished, when you came home," she told Will.

"Thank you, Debbie. I never thought I'd see you walk. That you healed this much is a miracle. Maybe, someday, you'll be able to do more."

"Maybe." Deborah smiled. "I don't try to predict the future anymore. It's enough to live through each day, taking each moment as it comes." Her smile widened, and she leaned closer into Will's embrace, kissing him, unmindful of the other couple in the room as she welcomed him home.

Jack and Rose watched them, smiling. They had witnessed a miracle, and the joy of reunion. Few were so blessed as William and Deborah Hutchison.

Except, perhaps, Rose and Jack Dawson.


	90. The Prodigal 21

Chapter Ninety

October 1, 1917

"Oh, Debbie, I'm going to miss you so much!" Rose hugged her best friend, who was standing precariously, supported by her crutches and her husband's arms.

"I'm going to miss you, too, Rosie," Deborah told her. "Write to me as soon as you can. And for God's sake, come and visit sometime soon. Don't hide away the way you have these past few years."

"Don't you hide either, Debbie." Rose looked at her seriously. "I think we've both learned a lot about life over the years. It's not good to hide away and not let people know where you are or what you are doing. I'm not going to run anymore, but--"

"I'm not going to hide away, Rosie. There's too much in the world to hide from. Hiding means that you miss the best parts of life. Life is too precious to hide from." She sank back into her wheelchair.

The Dawsons and the Hutchisons were both leaving Philadelphia, heading for their respective homes. Will, Deborah, and Grace were returning to San Francisco, along with their servants, while Jack and Rose planned to return to Los Angeles, after first making a stop in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin. Jack had insisted upon this stop, though he hadn't told Rose why. She was curious, but knew that he would tell her eventually.

The two families were taking separate trains, each going their own way--but Rose and Deborah had each faced so much, together and apart, that they had formed an inseparable bond. They would write as often as they could, and each knew that they would be welcome in the other's home, wherever that home happened to be.

The Hockleys had accompanied them to the train station, Ruth sorrowfully seeing her daughter off. She and Nathan had promised to come to visit after the baby was born, but for now Rose was once again leaving. Until the Dawsons found a home, there would be no way to contact them.

The Dawsons and the Hockleys stood watching as the Hutchisons boarded their train. Deborah hung onto the window, waving, as it pulled out of the station. Rose waved back, teary-eyed and yet happy, as her best friend headed for home with her husband and daughter. Deborah was truly blessed, she thought, in spite of all the trials life had thrown at her. She had prevailed over misfortune, coming out on top in spite of everything.

Rose sighed as Jack came to stand beside her, putting an arm around her waist. Deborah wasn't the only one who was blessed. She had been just as fortunate, though life had given her different trials to overcome. There were so many things that she had gone through, some that she didn't want to think about or remember, but she, too, had prevailed. She had survived, had come home after years of wandering—and she had found Jack again, the man she had loved from the moment she had met him. Circumstances had forced them apart, but those same circumstances had brought them back together.

The warning whistle on the Dawsons' train blew, breaking her from her reverie. Looking at Jack, she began to gather up their belongings, carrying most of their bags toward the train, while Jack followed behind her more slowly, carrying what remained. As they gave their bags to the porter, Ruth stopped her daughter.

"Rose." Ruth hugged her, sorry to see her go and yet happy that her daughter had found happiness at last. "I'm so glad you came back. You don't know how much I missed you."

"I do know, Mother. I...missed you, too. I wasn't sure, when I came here, that you would welcome me—or if you would even be here. I didn't know what had happened."

"I was angry when you left, Rose. I won't deny it. I had counted upon you to make a good marriage that would keep us solvent—but if you hadn't left, I would never have learned to rely on myself, never have made a good marriage for the right reasons. Yes, Nathan has a great deal of money—but by the time I married him, such things had ceased to mean anything to me. I realized, after you left so abruptly, just how much I had hurt you, and how selfish I had been. You once accused me of being selfish because I insisted that you stay away from Jack, and instead turn your attention to Cal. It was only when you tossed your bouquet aside and ran from the church that I knew how right you had been. I had been pushing you into the marriage for all the wrong reasons. I wanted a good marriage for you—but Cal wasn't the right man for you. Maybe he wasn't right for anyone. There were things about him that I never understood, some shadow that seemed to hang over him, in spite of his polite manners and gentlemanly demeanor. Rose, I'm glad you didn't marry him. I think he would have hurt you."

_He did hurt me, Mother,_ Rose thought, but kept this thought to herself. "It doesn't matter anymore. He's gone now, dead and gone. He won't hurt me or anyone else. When I came here, and was told that you'd married Mr. Hockley, I was afraid you had married Cal. After all, you're only a few years older than he was. I almost turned and ran when we came to the house, but I was afraid that you were with him, that he had harmed you in some way—and I wanted to keep you safe. I worried over what had become of you all the years I was away. In spite of my shock at seeing you remarried and with a new baby, I was relieved that you were all right."

"I'm more than all right, Rose. I've known more happiness the past few years than I had ever known before. When I was a girl, we lived on the crumbling remains of what had once been a great fortune, and then I married your father—a Yankee, much to my family's dismay—because he had wealth and power, things that I had always heard about and wanted. They proved to not be what I had thought, but I didn't know how to look for anything else—or maybe I didn't want to know. It's hard to let go of a lifelong dream, even when that dream proves to be less than what you wanted."

"Someone told me how intelligent, strong, and resourceful you had been, back when I was living in New Orleans."

"Who was that? I'm surprised that anyone remembered me, except for my family, and they would have told me that you were there."

"It was a family member—but not one that had ever been acknowledged. It was Tom DeWitt, our uncle."

"Tom? You met Tom down there?" Ruth smiled. "I remember him. He was one of my favorite people when I was growing up—he could talk for hours about any number of things, and he always listened to me. He was one of the few servants that we had, but I realized early on that he was family." She sighed, remembering. "He could play music beautifully, too—the banjo was his instrument."

"He was still playing it when I was there. We formed a street performance duo and tried to promote civil rights."

Ruth nodded, thinking. "Yes, that sounds like Tom...and like you. Caring about other people always seemed to be second nature to both of you."

The warning whistle blew again, signaling that the train was about to leave. Rose hugged her mother one more time.

"Good-bye, Mother. I'll write to you as soon as we find a place to live. I'll tell you as soon as the baby is born, too. I love you, Mother, and I'll miss you." She paused. "Mother, thank you for...for forgiving me for running away and leaving you alone."

"There was nothing to forgive, Rose. Slowly but surely, I came to realize that you had done the right thing in leaving. I only wished that I hadn't pushed you into it. Rose, my prodigal daughter, I was foolish to push you so far that you had no choice but to leave—but maybe it was for the best, for both of us. I learned what is really important in life, and you—you saw a lot of the world, both the good and the bad—and you've finally made the good marriage I wanted for you."

Rose smiled. "I've made two good marriages—but I think that this one is going to be forever. There's been something between Jack and me, right from the start. I loved Robert—but we didn't quite have that. It was a good marriage, and I was happy—but Jack was always in my heart. I didn't think of him when I was with Robert—but after Robert died, I realized what had been there all along."

The final warning whistle blew. Rose stepped away, going to stand beside Jack. Together, they stepped onto the train. Jack went to find his seat, while Rose stood at the entrance to the train, waving, until they pulled away and were out of sight.


	91. The Wife 1

Chapter Ninety-One

October 3, 1917

Two days later, as the train wound its way across the country towards Wisconsin, Rose turned to Jack in perplexity. It was with a sense of deja vu that she had watched the land pass by outside the window. Once again, she was on a train headed west, eventually bound for California, but first stopping in another small Midwestern town. It was so like her journey west with Robert that it gave her a chill, though there were enough differences that she wasn't alarmed.

On her first trip west with a man she loved, they had not yet been married, and they had stopped to see his family in Iowa. Jack had no family left, except for her and their coming child, and certainly they weren't headed for another bitterly cold land. When they came to end of this journey, they would be in Los Angeles to stay. Both had had enough of wandering to last a lifetime.

Still, Rose couldn't help but wonder why they were going to Chippewa Falls. Jack had grown up there, but he had no remaining family there, nor friends, after so many years. So what was his reason for wanting to go there?

"Jack?" Rose turned to look at him, seated beside her on the train.

Jack sat up straighter. He had been slouched in his seat, thinking, when Rose had interrupted him. "What?"

"I'm curious...why are we going to Chippewa Falls?"

"Because..." He hesitated. "Because...I need to go there, just once, before we settle down."

"Haven't you visited there in the past few years?"

He shook his head. "No. I never did. I promised Amelia that one day we would visit there, but, of course, we didn't."

"So you haven't visited your old town at all?"

"No, not since...since I was fifteen."

"Ten years since you've been home. That's a long time."

"Yes. And that's why I need to go there. I need to...settle things there, once and for all, because I don't think I'll come this way again."

"We might travel here someday."

Jack shook his head. "No...not to Chippewa Falls, anyway. That was where I grew up, and where my parents were both born—and died—but it's time to lay that part of my life to rest. I never have, but like you, I have to face the past sometime. It's the only way to move on with life. I never faced the past before, not really, but I need to. You can't live in the past, and I think a part of me has been living there since the fire in 1907." He looked at her, his eyes begging her to understand.

Rose was silent for a moment, thinking about what he said. He was right. A person couldn't live in the past—but unlike what he thought, she still hadn't quite been able to let go of what was past. She didn't know if she would ever be able to let go completely, but she would try.

"I know. You can't keep living in the past, though it seems to me you've done a good job of living for the present."

"Not always. I've spent a lot of time trying to escape my memories—but there's no way to do that without confronting them. That's why we're going to Chippewa Falls—so that I can confront those memories, and finally put them to rest."

He looked at her, but his mind was elsewhere, thinking of where they were going and what they would see once they got there. His attention was returned to the present when Rose took his hand, squeezing it gently.

"Sometimes it helps to have someone else there—and I'll be with you every step of the way. I promise."

"I know you will. You always did keep your promises." He smiled, squeezing her hand in return, as they journeyed on toward their destination.


	92. The Wife 2

Chapter Ninety-Two

October 4, 1917  
Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin

It was mid-morning when the train arrived in Chippewa Falls. It had been a long three-day journey there, getting off the first train in a larger city and taking a smaller, local train to Jack's old hometown.

Both Jack and Rose were tired when they finally emerged from the train. They had not had the money to afford sleeper cars on the train, so they had mainly been confined to their seats for the last three days. Jack in particular tired easily, but Rose, too, was glad to leave the train and set foot on solid ground.

Jack looked around as he stepped down from the train. Not much had changed. There were some different faces, a few more cars and buildings, but it much the same as it had been ten years before. Even the train station was the same, a horde of boys standing around waiting to act as porters in hope of getting tips. He smiled slightly as he observed a couple of girls in the crowd. Women everywhere were becoming more independent, demanding the same rights, opportunities, and freedoms as men, and the girls were taking advantage of the changes, as well. It was they who would inherit what their mothers had struggled for.

As he and Rose went to pick up their luggage, he was reminded acutely of his mother. She had been one of those women who had believed that they were equal to men, and she had been outspoken about her views. Some people had shunned her for this, but it was what had attracted his father to her. The Dawson men had always been attracted to strong women, and neither he nor his father had been exceptions. His parents had married within a year of meeting each other, with Jack already on the way.

The Dawsons picked up their luggage and started down the street, carrying it themselves, much to the disappointment of the would-be porter who had approached them. But money was tight, at least until they found work again, and they couldn't afford the dime tip that their helper had wanted.

There was only one hotel in town, just as when Jack had left, but fortunately, it was still an inexpensive place to stay. They couldn't afford much—certainly not one of the better rooms—but camping out on the outskirts of town was out of the question. The autumn weather was growing cold, especially at night, making some kind of a room necessary.

They made their way to the hotel and went inside, hoping that there was a room available. If not, they would have to try to find one of Jack's old friends—and there was no telling where they might be. Ten years was a long time, even in a small town.

"Good morning, sir," the desk clerk told him, eyeing his shabby clothing. Both Jack and Rose resembled the unwanted drifters who made their way into Chippewa Falls seeking work or trouble. Not that he wouldn't give them a room if they could pay for it, but drifters were unpopular in any town, and even moreso in a small, staid Midwestern town.

"We want a room," Jack told him, setting his suitcase down and leaning on his walking stick. He was exhausted from the long trip and the walk into town.

"We have three rooms available. What sort of room are you looking for, and for how long?"

"The cheapest possible, for two days." He knew that two days was extravagant—it would only take one day to do what he needed—but he wanted Rose to see his hometown. Besides that, he was tired from traveling, and it was still a long way to California. And once they reached Los Angeles, they would need to find work as quickly as possible. An extra day to rest sounded like the best possible thing they could do.

"There is an attic room available for twenty-five cents a night," he was told. "Single occupancy."

"We'll take it."

"There's only one bed, sir. Unless you are married to the young lady..."

"We're married," Rose told him. She showed him the gold ring on her finger. Jack had had no money for a wedding ring for her, but Ruth had given him her first wedding ring, insisting that he give it to Rose. He had protested at first, but soon gave in when Ruth told him how Rose had admired the ring as a little girl. The ring was a little bit small for her, but she had no intention of taking it off.

The clerk looked at them, trying to determine if she was telling the truth. The ring looked too good to belong to such an impoverished couple. Finally, he pushed the register toward them.

"Sign here," he told Jack, indicating an empty line near the bottom of the page.

Jack signed himself and Rose to the register, then counted out fifty cents and gave it to the clerk. The clerk reached for a key on a rack behind the counter, handing it to Jack.

"You'll be in Room 304," he told him, "at the top of the second flight of stairs."

Jack took the key, sighing. Apparently the hotel still did not have an elevator. Wearily, he picked his suitcase back up and started for the stairs.

Rose took his suitcase from him as they started up. "You look like you're ready to fall down the stairs," she told him when he looked at her questioningly. "That's much worse than landing in the dust," she added.

He nodded. He'd come near to falling on the stairs a couple of times in the past year—an experience he preferred not to repeat.

At the top of the second flight of stairs, he took his suitcase back from a struggling Rose and found their room. Unlocking the door, he ushered Rose inside and closed the door behind them.

They both lay down on the bed, too tired to bother with undressing, or even removing their shoes. In minutes, they were both sound asleep.

It was mid-afternoon by the time the Dawsons awakened. Rose sat up first, yawning and stretching, feeling refreshed for the first time in days. The bed shifted as she got up, and Jack opened his eyes, slowly sitting up.

"What time is it?" he asked Rose, stretching and looking toward the window.

"I don't know." Rose pulled back the curtains and looked out. "Afternoon, it looks like."

Jack pulled himself to his feet and joined her at the window. Nodding, he turned to look at her.

"I think there's enough time, then."

"Enough time for what?"

"I need to visit my parents' graves. That's why I wanted to come here."

"Where are they buried?"

"On their farm, on the outskirts of town."

"Are you sure you want to walk that far?" Rose frowned. It was no problem for her, of course, but Jack had so much trouble with long walks...

"It isn't really that far," he told her. "About a mile or so. My pa's parents were homesteaders who got their land near to where the town was built, and Pa inherited it after they died."

"So why didn't you inherit it after your parents died?"

He shrugged. "There were several bad years in a row. A lot of debt. The land was sold to pay off those debts."

Rose nodded, understanding, but still had a question. "Are you sure we'll be allowed to visit the gravesite?"

"It's right on the edge of the property, near the road. I don't think anyone will object as long as we stay out of the fields."

"Well, then..." Rose let the curtains drop. "Let's go."

Rose was surprised to find not two, but five graves in the little burial plot, shaded by a tall oak tree. Jack told her who each grave belonged to.

"These are the graves of my grandfather and grandmother, Joseph and Camilla Dawson. They came west just before the Civil War began. Originally, they were from Connecticut, but they were looking something different. And this..." He gestured to a small grave in the center. "...this is my little brother, Abraham. He was about five years younger than me. One winter, he got a really bad case of pneumonia. Ma and Pa took him into town, but it was the middle of the night, and the doctor refused to see him. By morning, it was too late." He looked at the small grave, sadness in his eyes. "He was only three years old. Ma cried for the longest time after that—and we couldn't bury him until spring. The ground was frozen too solid."

Rose shook her head with sympathy, putting her arms around him. She remembered, all too well, storing Robert's body in a pit until spring had thawed the land enough to bury him. To have to bury a child...she shuddered, touching her middle, hoping that she would never lose another child. One was too many.

"So...these are your parents' graves?" she asked, looking toward the two graves Jack had not yet shown her.

He nodded. "Yes. Joseph Dawson, Jr., and Marie Dawson." He crouched down in front of the graves, tracing the names and dates carved in the headstones.

Ten years. It had been ten years since he had fled from this place, taking what little he had with him. He'd had no reason to stay—his entire family was gone, and he was the only one left. There were people who would have taken him in, of course...including the family that had bought the land. But he couldn't stay. Two weeks after the funeral, he had walked away down the long dirt road toward the south, never looking back.

Reaching down, he cleared away the tangle of dried brush and grass that covered both graves, revealing the small, hardy flowers that he had scattered seeds for at the funeral ten years before. They were still growing, and a quick look around revealed that others of their kind had taken root on the roadside and on the other graves.

Struggling to his feet, he looked down at the graves, hardly noticing Rose, who stood beside him, a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Ma, Pa," he whispered, his voice barely audible, "it's me. Jack. I know it's been a long time...but I could never get the courage to come back here before. I had plenty of opportunities—I came west again in 1912—but I couldn't. Not even with Amelia. But...I thought the time was finally right to come back and visit. I won't be back after this—it's time to move on. I just wanted you to know that I still love you, and I'll never forget you. I realize now that you didn't blame me for knocking that lantern over. It was an accident, one that could happen to anyone. Pa, you told me as much before you died. But it's taken me a long time to accept that. I've finally made my peace with your deaths, and now—now I can move on with life. Thank you, Ma, Pa, for being able to forgive me. I only wish it hadn't taken so long to forgive myself."

He turned away from Rose for a moment, regaining his composure. When he turned back to her, his eyes were red, but his face was calm.

Rose put her arms around him. "You know," she whispered, "you're not the only Dawson left anymore. I'm here, and so is our little one." She moved his hand to rest on her middle.

He put his arms around her, holding her tight. "I know." He stroked her hair gently.

Rose looked up at him, taking his hand in hers. "Let's go back now. I think it's time to go."

He nodded, walking along at her side, their hands joined.

"It is—now."


	93. The Wife 3

Chapter Ninety-Three

October 5, 1917

Jack and Rose sat on a bench looking out over the main street of town, eating their lunch. It had been a long, cold night in the small, unheated room, but they had kept each other warm, finally awakening refreshed at mid-morning.

After they had gotten up, Jack had shown Rose around the town where he had grown up, showing her the schools he had attended, the stores where his mother had shopped, and even the bar where he and his friends talked the bartender into selling them beer when they were barely fifteen. Rose had laughed at the stories, recognizing his carefree spirit even at such an early age.

At noon, they had stopped at the market and bought food for lunch, then carried it to an out-of-the-way bench overlooking the main street of town. Jack's walking stick had thumped as they walked along, though the rest and the simple pleasure of showing Rose around his hometown had lightened his step considerably.

Now, Rose leaned closer to him, nibbling on her food. Laughing, Jack put an arm around her shoulders and leaned back, watching the people on the street and pointing out those he knew. A few had done a double take upon seeing him after so many years, and a few had come up to talk to him, but he was really no longer a part of this town.

"I guess it's true when they say you can't go home again," Rose murmured, leaning against him.

"What do you mean?"

"You can visit the same place, but it isn't the same. Maybe the place has changed, or you have, but it's never quite the same as when you left. You see things differently, and people see you in a different light, too. Sometimes, it seems like they've changed a lot from when you left, but maybe it's just that you've seen something new and gotten a different perspective of the world. It makes you different, and people see that."

Jack nodded, understanding. He had thought about the same thing himself, but in a different way. There had been changes in the town since he had left ten years earlier, but it had still seemed the same small, tightly-knit community he had grown up in. Outsiders were suspect, and often unwelcome. It even seemed—dare he think it—more judgmental than he remembered, people expecting a certain level of conformity and ostracizing those who did not fit in. He had never really noticed this as a child growing up, but after ten years away, after seeing more of the world than most of those he had grown up with ever would, he saw things that had not been visible before—the staid, self-assured people, confident that their way was right and just—people equally narrow-minded with the society Rose had left behind.

The world was changing, but many people never looked far enough outside themselves to see what was happening. They had their own lives and cares to think about, and the outside world's changes were of little concern until the consequences hit them head-on—as the war they were now fighting had. It was true that a person couldn't go back to what they knew before, because it no longer existed—and maybe never had.

Rose looked up then, gazing at him questioningly. "Jack...yesterday, when we visited your parents' graves, you said something about realizing that they don't blame you for knocking over that lantern. What happened?"

He sighed, leaning back against the bench. He had never told this story to anyone before—but Rose needed to know. There could be no secrets between them.

"It was an October evening in 1907. It was getting cold by that time, so we were working inside as much as we could. Out there on the farm, we didn't have any of those things like electric lights or running water. So we still had kerosene lamps." He paused, then went on. "Pa was mending a harness. I guess we could have had that done in town, but it was easier to just do it ourselves. I was helping him—sort of. I wasn't very good at it. At any rate, I picked up one end to stretch it out so we could see how much work would be needed—and I accidentally hit the kerosene lamp with my elbow. I was all arms and legs back then, like any boy that age, and a little clumsy to go with it. The lamp was heavy, but I was being careless, and hit it just hard enough to knock it off the table. The glass shattered, with flaming kerosene flying everywhere. Everything—all of Ma's embroidered cushions, the few books on a shelf, the tinder by the fireplace—it all went up immediately. Worst of all, some of the kerosene landed on Pa, and his clothes just went up in flames. Ma could have gotten out—she was in the kitchen washing the dishes—but instead she ran to Pa and tried to help him. There wasn't anything she could do, but she wouldn't stop. Ma and Pa—they would do anything for each other. That was the kind of relationship they had. Anyway, her skirt caught fire, and as I tried to help them, she screamed at me to run and get help from the neighbors. By that time, the house was in flames. I was lucky to escape without injury. The next house was a quarter-mile away...I think I ran that quarter-mile in less than a minute. The neighbors ran back with me, but by then it was too late. Ma had managed to get Pa out of the house, but they were both so badly burned that there was nothing anyone could do. I ran to them, even though someone tried to hold me back, and just begged them to be all right, to not die. When I said I was sorry for knocking the lamp over, Pa told me that he didn't blame me for it, that it was an accident that could have happened to anyone. And that was when he died, and Ma with him. Two weeks later, I left Chippewa Falls. I always remembered Pa's words, but I could never believe them—until now."

His eyes overflowed as Rose put her arms around him, holding him close. "Sorry," he mumbled, quickly wiping his eyes.

"Don't be. I've cried my share of tears over past griefs, too. Sometimes you have to, in order to get past them, as though tears were cleansing."

"Maybe they are."

They sat together, arms wrapped around each other, for a few minutes more before standing to go back to the hotel.

As they were about to enter the hotel, a man with a briefcase and a stack of papers in his hand rose from his place outside the door and walked over to them.

"Mrs. Dawson?" he asked, looking at Rose.

Automatically, Rose turned to him, wondering how he knew her name. She stiffened, suddenly wondering if another part of her past best left forgotten was about to be revealed. The man looked oddly familiar, though she couldn't quite place him.

"Mrs. Dawson, I'm Gary Jennings, assistant to Paul Brinkley, Esther Henke's lawyer."

Rose was immediately alert. What could anyone possibly want with her here? Esther was dead, and so was her grandson. Rose had had no part in those deaths, and she had taken only her own belongings from the ranch when she left. What if someone were blaming her for Guillermo's death, or Esther's?

Jack felt Rose tense beside him, her eyes darting about nervously as she looked for an escape. What did she think she'd done? Why was this assistant lawyer here in Chippewa Falls?

"I would like to speak with you in private, Mrs. Dawson, if I may."

Rose stared at him, her eyes wide and terrified. Someone else from her past had tracked her down—but how? And for what purpose?

As she tensed, ready to run, she felt Jack's staying hand on her shoulder. She calmed slightly, remembering her promise not to run anymore. But could she keep it?

"Go ahead, Rose," Jack told her. "There's a cafe across the street where you can talk." He looked at her significantly. "I'll wait for you upstairs."

Rose nodded, understanding what he meant. He would wait to see if she came back, or if she ran again. At that moment, she honestly couldn't say which she intended.

"All right," she told him, kissing him quickly. Taking a deep breath, she followed Jennings across the street.

Jack watched her go, leaning on his walking stick. He honestly didn't know if she would come back. He could only hope that she would find the strength to honor her promise not to run anymore.

Rose walked into the cafe behind Jennings. He looked at the waitress, indicating that he wanted a corner table. When they were seated with cups of coffee before them, he set the papers on the table.

Putting on his glasses, he began, "As you know, Esther Henke died of cancer late in January of this year, and her grandson, William 'Guillermo' Henke, died in an airplane crash in the Mexico desert."

Rose nodded shakily, sipping her coffee. "We were shot down by bandits." Was this what he wanted to talk to her about? Was she blamed for Guillermo's death? Her hands trembled as she lifted the cup again, clutching it as though it would keep her from running.

"Mr. Brinkley tried to approach you in Temescal, but you left town without speaking to him or leaving an address. Recently, a story was published in the newspaper about you. It seems that you killed a notorious bandit in the desert, and were the recipient of a sizable award."

Rose set down her cup, wiping her damp palms on her skirt. Was this what this visit was about? Did the remaining family members want the money she had received? They could have it. She didn't want it. She never had. If it enough to compensate for Guillermo's death, she would be glad to hand it over.

"They can have the money," she told the man, picking up the cup again. "Every cent of it, if they think it will help."

"You mean the Henke family?"

"Yes."

"There's only a few members left, all of whom are comfortably situated. They have no interest in your reward."

Rose's mind raced. What could they want, then? She had left Esther in good hands, and Guillermo's death was the fault of the bandits, not her. Was she about to be arrested for a crime she didn't commit?

"What do they want, then?" She slid her chair back, ready to flee.

"Mrs. Henke changed her will before she died. In it, she stipulated that if her grandson was not found, or if he did not accept responsibility for his inheritance, then her entire estate was to go to you, Rose Calvert, now Dawson, the granddaughter of her heart, who cared when no one else did."

Rose just stared at him in shock for a moment, his words slowly sinking in. Esther had willed the ranch to her. The open, beautiful land that she had come to love was hers now.

Then his other words sunk in. "The granddaughter of her heart?"

He nodded. "Few of her family members visited in her later years, as I'm sure you're aware. She struggled to care for the house and run the ranch alone, even in her declining years. Then you came along and helped her more than her children or grandchildren ever had. It was to have gone to a family member—Guillermo—but if he did not claim it, she wanted someone who loved and cared about the place as much as she did to have it. The ranch had been in her family's hands since the 1790's, and she wanted the new owner to be someone who knew and respected its history. So she chose you."

Rose was overwhelmed. She dabbed at her eyes with a napkin, remembering the old woman who had been like a mother to her in the time she had lived with her. Rose had never asked for anything from her, save knowledge—but Esther had known how much she loved the ranch, and had willed it to her.

"I...I don't know what to say," she gasped, wiping streaming eyes with the napkin. "She knew...that was one of the few places I could ever call home."

"And it's yours, now." He handed her a handkerchief.

Rose sniffed and wiped her eyes. "Esther..." she whispered. She handed the handkerchief back to Jennings. "Thank you. Thank you so much," she told him. "I never imagined this." She paused, still curious about one thing. "How did you find me here?"

"The newspaper article said you were a guest of the Hockleys in Philadelphia. I sent a telegram, trying to contact you and explain the situation...and a Ruth Hockley informed me that you had left for Chippewa Falls. That was four days ago. I just arrived today, and was lucky enough to find you at the hotel."

Rose shook her head, trying to understand the strange twists and turns that life gave them, and then smiled at the man, reaching out to shake his hand.

It was late afternoon when Rose returned to the hotel, a folder holding the necessary papers in her hand. There were a few people in the lobby, but she swept past them, climbing the stairs to the tiny room she shared with Jack.

He was there waiting. Standing at the window, looking out at the street below, his shoulders were hunched, as though there were a great weight on them. As she closed the door, he turned, his eyes searching hers.

"You came back."

"Yes. Jack, I..."

"I was afraid you wouldn't."

"I didn't run this time, Jack. Even when I wanted to, I remembered the promise that I made. To break that promise would destroy what we've built together. How can there be love and trust between us if I run every time I fear something?"

"You did before."

"Not this time. I'm staying—because I want to."

His face softened then, the worried look leaving his eyes. Abruptly, he pulled her close, hugging her so hard she thought her ribs might crack.

They kissed, renewing that promise they had made to stand beside one another for a lifetime.

"I didn't run this time, Jack—and I never will again."


	94. The Wife 4

Chapter Ninety-Four

October 6, 1917

It was not until the next day, after they had boarded the train and begun the journey west again, that Rose told Jack of her inheritance. In the midst of Jack's relief that Rose had not run again, and Rose's own joy in the knowledge that she had overcome herself, the reason for the lawyer's seeking her out had been forgotten. But when they settled into their seats and left Chippewa Falls the next day, Rose knew that the time had come to tell him.

"Jack," she began, reaching into the bag at her feet. "I never did tell you the reason why Mr. Jennings sought me out."

Remembering why Rose had come near to running again, Jack turned to her, unable to hide his concern—and his curiosity. "Why did he come looking for you? You aren't in trouble again, are you?"

Rose shook her head, laughing softly. "Not this time. No, he came looking for me for a good reason." She pulled the papers from her bag and handed them to him.

"What's this?" He looked at the papers, not understanding.

"These are legal documents. The old woman who I lived with, Esther Henke, changed her will shortly before she died. Her will had originally stipulated that everything was to be inherited by her grandson, William Henke. Even before she sent me to Mexico to look for him, she had made a few changes that I knew about, granting me a few items that had special meaning to me. The airplane was one of them. However, William—Guillermo, as he preferred to be called—was not always responsible. He had a great passion for life, and for what he believed in, but the ranch that was his heritage had never really interested him. He preferred the idea of being a Villista, a revolutionary fighting for a great cause, even if it was for another country. I went to look for him, and eventually found him, but it was with great reluctance that he agreed to accompany me back to the United States. Even if I had brought him back successfully, there was no guarantee that he would have taken up the responsibilities that had been laid out for him. Esther knew him, and knew how he felt—but she didn't want the land that had been in her family for over a century to simply be sold off if he didn't want it. Her family had kept the land only because of her marriage to an American—but it could still be sold off if it was unclaimed upon Esther's death. Unbeknownst to me, she put a provision in her will that if Guillermo did not want the property, or if he died—something likely enough for a revolutionary—the ranch would go to me."

It took a moment for her words to sink in. "And so you inherited the ranch. But why did she choose someone not of her family? And why didn't you take control of the ranch when you returned to California?"

Rose looked out the window for a moment, watching the scenery outside the train. At last, she turned back to Jack.

"I think Esther knew that the ranch was one of the few places I had ever really been able to call home. Although I am no relation to her, she knew how much I respected and appreciated the land and all that she and her forebears had done to keep it and make it prosperous. She wanted someone who loved the land as well as she did to have it. In her will, she called me the 'granddaughter of her heart'. Esther was like a mother to me in the time that I lived with her. In many ways, I was closer to her than I ever was to my own mother."

Jack nodded, understanding the bond that could grow between people, sometimes without any understandable reason. He had known such things, too—Fabrizio had been like a brother to him, and he had mourned his friend's death as strongly as he had mourned the death of his own brother in Chippewa Falls so many years before. More, perhaps, because he had been a grown man able to understand the meaning of death and loss when his closest friend had died, while he had been only a child at the time of his brother's death.

Rose was silent for a moment, lost in her memories. When she looked up, she carefully took the papers from Jack and sorted through them.

"I didn't claim the ranch upon my return to California because I didn't know that it had been willed to me. I was in shock, in a way, after what happened in Mexico, and filled with guilt because I hadn't succeeded in bringing Guillermo back. I dreaded having to tell Esther that he had died in the airplane crash, and then felt even more guilty when I was relieved at not having to tell her. I went back to the ranch, but she had died two weeks before I returned. There didn't seem to be any reason to stay—with both Esther and Guillermo dead, I thought that the ranch would be sold off to the highest bidder, so I couldn't stay there. Mr. Brinkley, Esther's lawyer, tried to talk to me while I was in town, but I brushed him off and left. I was sure that I already knew what he was going to say, but I didn't want to hear it. I took my few possessions and left, and had no real address until we moved to Los Angeles. It would have been very hard to track me down, and it was only after an article was published in the newspaper about how I killed Guerrero that they knew where to find me—it said that I was staying with the Hockleys in Philadelphia. Once Mr. Brinkley's assistant tracked me down, he was able to give me the information."

"And you now own a ranch in California."

"_We_ own a ranch in California. What is mine is also yours, now that we're married."

He nodded thoughtfully. "And do you plan to go there, to claim it?"

"I've already claimed it, and signed the papers."

Jack shook his head, realizing that he hadn't made himself clear. "I meant, what do you plan to do with it? Do you want to go there to live? Do you want to sell it? It's up to you."

Rose looked down at her hands, considering. When Jennings had told her of her inheritance, she hadn't thought beyond the fact that the place she had called home was now hers. She hadn't thought about how things might be for Jack. Would he want to live there? Would he be capable of the rugged work necessary to run a ranch?

She looked at him, and at the walking stick that was never far from his hand. He didn't have the physical strength that she did, and probably never would. Remembering how difficult the work he had been doing when they first met again had been for him, she doubted that he would be able to run the ranch. The paperwork would be easy enough for him, but the harder physical work might be too much.

And yet, she wanted to try. She herself was strong and healthy, able to work hard, though she would have to slow down for her coming baby. She could hire people to work, perhaps change the way the ranch was run, or what was produced. She had lived there long enough, and observed enough, to know that there were options beyond keeping cattle—dry farming or keeping sheep or horses were among the ideas that had crossed her mind.

"I want to try living there," she told him at last. "It's home to me, more than any other place I've ever lived. I have so many ideas of things that we could try..."

Jack looked at the papers in her hands, and then down at his walking stick and crippled leg. He knew how much this meant to Rose, but what would he do there? He knew his physical limitations, even though he often struggled against them, wanting to do more, wanting to be capable of what he could do before the polio. It wasn't likely that he would ever completely recover, though, and he knew it. As much as this meant to Rose, they still had to live together, to face the reality of what their lives were like.

"I don't know, Rose," he told her at last. "I don't know if I could handle it. I worked on ranches a few times years ago, after I left Chippewa Falls. I know how much work it is, and I don't think I can do that now."

"Maybe you wouldn't have to," Rose told him, her eyes lighting as an idea came to her. "Jack, I still have the money from the reward. I never wanted it, but...maybe I can make something good of it." She paused, thinking. "I could use it to make the ranch work again—not just because I want to, but because it would honor the Henke family. It was Guerrero and his bandits who killed Guillermo, and it would only be right that I use the money from the reward to rebuild what the Henke family once had. Guillermo might never have taken over the ranch, worked it and made it prosper, but it was still a part of his heritage. And Esther wanted me to have it—she knew that I loved and appreciated the land, and knew that I could do what it took to make it prosperous. In her memory, and in Guillermo's honor, I want to try to make it work."

Jack nodded, thinking about what she had said. It was a chance for Rose to put her painful past behind her, by turning the sorrows of her life into something worthwhile. But there was still the question of what he would do—even if Rose could make it work, he wouldn't be able to simply sit back and do nothing. He had worked his entire life, and to be idle was contrary to his nature and to the way he was raised. He had to do something.

"It could work," he told her carefully, "but what would I do? I've never simply been able to do nothing. And I couldn't let you do all the work alone, especially not with a baby on the way."

Rose thought about his words, her mind going over ways to solve this problem. Then she smiled. "What have you always done, Jack? What has always been your passion?"

He glanced at her, wondering why she asked. She already knew the answer. "Art. It's always been art."

"Then this would be a chance for you to do what you've always enjoyed. It's a wide, beautiful land there, open valleys and rolling hills, small towns scattered around. The house is small—but still large enough that we could raise a family there and still have room for other things, especially if we added rooms onto it. You told me once that you dreamed of being able to settle down and just work on your art—and maybe here, you could. There's a room with a large window that catches the morning sunlight, and another window that gets the light of late afternoon. It would be perfect as an art studio."

Jack rubbed his chin, tempted by the thought of what she was describing. The idea of being able to work on his art full time appealed to him, and he was already mulling over where such a plan might lead. They had to do something, go somewhere, and the ranch that Rose had inherited sounded like as good a place as any. Rose could run the ranch, and he could work on his art—and perhaps they could make things work together, his work a part of Rose's, and Rose's work a part of his. It was certainly worth trying.

He looked at Rose, who was watching him hopefully, wondering what he was thinking. "I think we can try it," he told her, smiling. "Maybe together we can make it work."


	95. The Wife 5

Chapter Ninety-Five

In the months that followed, Jack and Rose went to live at the ranch that Esther had willed to Rose, and began to make a home of it.

The house that Rose had shared with Esther was still there, though it needed some repairs after being abandoned for several months. Many of the outbuildings were also still in existence, but the shed that had housed the airplane had fallen in, the early spring rains finally taking it down.

Rose showed Jack every inch of the land, her joy in returning home obvious. They walked over the vast acres of the ranch, through the section of the valley that it encompassed and over the low, rolling hills. The autumn land was brown and dry, but Rose knew that with work, and with the coming of spring, the land could be made to bloom.

The Dawsons quickly decided that running cattle was beyond their abilities—and their finances. Despite the money that Rose had received from the reward, they still had limited funds, and had to be cautious with money, looking for the best ways to use what they had.

It was Rose who decided that truck farming—the growing of fruits and vegetables for the local market—was the best way to use the land, but it was Jack who helped her get started. Having grown up on a farm, he knew more about running one than Rose did, even with the varied experience she had gained in her years of wandering.

Jack made his way out into the open valley every day, even when Rose did not accompany him, to see where the crop fields could be laid, where water would come from, and where the best places to grow each thing were. Although the warm, dry land of Southern California was a world away from the Wisconsin farm where he had grown up, some things were the same wherever he went.

And so, the Dawsons began a truck farm—the first of its kind in the valley, which had always been used for running cattle before. Some of the townspeople watched skeptically, not believing that their plan would work. No one had ever tried large-scale farming in the area before. Kitchen gardens and small fields, yes, but never had anyone tried to make a living from agriculture there before. But Jack and Rose were determined to make it work.

They hired people to dig irrigation ditches from a spring at the base of the hills to the fields, and hired others to plow the land and help plant the seeds. Few people believed that they would succeed, but in January, when they first began bringing produce into town to sell, people changed their minds.

They were some miles from San Diego, but close enough that Rose was able to make contracts to sell produce to some merchants there, who would send buyers out to them. While on one of her trips to the city, Rose impulsively invested in orange trees—something she had seen growing all around Riverside, but had never seen in such large quantities elsewhere. She planted them herself, in a warm spot where water collected but did not flood, and soon her orchard was thriving.

Jack had set up his art studio soon after they arrived, using the room that Rose had described to him. At first, he did not spend as much time working there as he had expected—there was the land to explore, and repairs to be made to the buildings, and a farm to plan. Much of his energy was used in helping Rose to get her farm started, and in making repairs—most did not require much strength, or the ability to climb.

To Jack's surprise, he was growing stronger, needing the walking stick less and less, especially after they bought two horses for the farm, and began riding them every day. The exercise strengthened him, even in his bad leg, which would always be weak. His limp, while still there, was less pronounced, becoming almost unnoticeable when he walked slowly.

Jack soon found a way to use his artistic talents to help Rose in her venture—drawing plans for the irrigation ditches and fields, recording on paper the best ways to grow the crops that Rose had selected, knowing what would grow well there after her time with Esther. In spite of his initial misgivings, the ranch, now turned to a farm, thrived under their combined work.

Rose also planted a kitchen garden for their own use, and invested in a few animals—not enough for the herds that were so common in the region, but enough for their own use—a cow, some chickens, the horses—and a few sheep. She had a fondness for the woolly, brainless creatures, who were so adept at clearing weeds from a field. She wasn't sure how to shear them, having never kept sheep before, but she was confident that she would learn, as she had learned a thousand other skills since she had left Philadelphia so long ago.

But change was not the only thing taking place on the ranch. Sometimes, old things reappeared, sometimes without rhyme or reason.

One frosty morning late in December, Rose stepped out the front door to take care of the livestock—and almost tripped over the animal curled up in the doorway. The creature jumped, startled, and then turned, jumping up and licking her face, yelping with delight.

"Tripper!"

Rose grabbed the dog's head, ruffling the fur and laughing. Tripper dropped to the ground, running in circles and stumbling over his own paws, almost tumbling off the porch in his enthusiasm. Rose laughed with joy as she watched him.

Jack came out, wondering what was going on. His eyes widened at the sight of Rose doubled over with laughter, her eyes following the antics of the large husky mix frolicking on the porch.

Tripper noticed him then, and ran over to investigate. Rose followed, ready to restrain the dog if he should threaten to attack—Tripper had always been suspicious of strangers. But, amazingly, after sniffing Jack over, the dog decided to accept him, jumping up to lick his face with such enthusiasm that he knocked Jack over.

As Rose helped him up, pushing the enthusiastic canine out of the way, she commented, "It's strange how easily he's accepted you. He's never liked strangers. Maybe he senses that you belong here."

"Who—what—is that?" Jack sputtered, not sure what was going on.

"It's Tripper," she explained, crouching down to hug the animal. "He's been my boon companion since Alaska. I thought he was gone, vanished while I was in Mexico." She petted the dog's thick fur, picking out a few burs and foxtails. "Where have been, you big mutt? I thought I'd never see you again."

But Tripper couldn't tell her where he'd been, and she never discovered where he'd gone during those months—if perhaps he had gone looking for her, and gotten lost, or if he'd gone off with someone else, or been taken away. Whatever had happened, he was back, and never left her side again in all his days. He accepted Jack, but Rose was the one he followed everywhere, accompanying her wherever she went. Even after a stray female made her way to the farm, and the two dogs started their own pack, he still followed Rose, more attached to her than he would ever be to one of his own kind.

Tripper was not the only one who made his way to the farm that winter, however. Early in February, as Jack and Rose awkwardly made their way around the barn and sheds, caring for the animals—Jack moving awkwardly from his crippled leg, and Rose from her advancing pregnancy—they were startled by the approach of a stranger, who came to the front gate and stopped, calling out uncertainly.

"Hello!"

Jack looked up from his work, setting aside the milk pail he had been carrying back to the house. He gave Tripper a stern look—the dog would gorge himself on fresh milk, and then lie in misery for days, if allowed to—and started toward the gate. A moment later, Rose joined him, moving politely but warily toward the man standing on the road going into the property. They were always wary of strangers, but most meant no harm, wanting only food or water. A few had been hired on temporarily.

Rose walked slowly toward the man, trying to place him. He looked strangely familiar, but she had seen so many people that she wasn't sure. He could just be a stranger—but she was sure she recognized him.

"Rose?" he asked uncertainly. Then, remembering his manners, he corrected himself, "Miss Dawson?"

Suddenly, Rose knew who he was. He was older, more mature, but she knew him.

"Gabe! Gabe Cane!" She rushed forward, hugging him, while Jack once again looked on in confusion, wondering what was going on. "Where have you been? Robert said that you left for California the day after Alice's funeral, but...have you been around here all this time?"

"I've been all over," he told her. "It took a couple of years to get to California—I didn't have much money—and I've been working ever since. I was passing through Temescal, and heard about the Dawson farm, so I had to come and see if the Rose Dawson people mentioned was you."

"It's me," Rose confirmed. She turned to Jack, motioning him over. "Gabe, this is my husband, Jack Dawson. Jack, this is Gabe Cane, who I knew when I lived in New York."

"Hello." Jack shook Gabe's hand, looking at the young man a little suspiciously. He wasn't sure if he trusted this man from Rose's past.

Gabe looked at Jack in confusion, and then at Rose. "So you're Mrs. Dawson? Where was he when you were in New York?"

Rose sighed. "It's a long story. We were only married a few months ago."

"And you're already expecting a baby." Gabe had noticed Rose's swollen middle. "It's strange—I was always sure that you and Robert would end up together."

A look of sadness crossed Rose's face. "We did, for a time. We were married in 1914—and Robert died in 1915." She shook her head to dispel the memories. "Will you join us for breakfast? The bread I was baking should be done by now."

Gabe nodded his assent, following them to the house.

In spite of his initial misgivings, Jack soon came to like Gabe, once he was certain that Gabe had no designs on Rose. He proved to be an adept farm worker, having learned his skills in the San Joaquin Valley to the north in his early years in California. They soon hired him to oversee the farm, their only permanent employee. Although they offered him a small building to turn into a house on the property, he preferred to live in town, leaving the Dawsons their privacy.

And so the winter passed, and spring came—and with it the birth of Jack and Rose's child.


	96. The Wife 6

Chapter Ninety-Six

March 19, 1918

Rose lay on her side, nestled within the layers of covers. Jack was asleep beside her, his arms wrapped around her from behind. She snuggled more deeply into the blankets and Jack's embrace, her hand moving to touch her swollen stomach.

The baby moved inside her, tiny arms and legs squirming against the confinement. It would be born soon. _Very soon,_ Rose thought, as her back and stomach muscles tightened. The pains had been coming since midnight, growing stronger and closer together. Soon, very soon, she would bring their child into the world.

Glancing out the window, Rose could see that it was still dark outside. In a little while, she and Jack would rise and begin the daily work of life on their farm. But for a few minutes more, she could relax beside him.

Jack stirred, sensing her restlessness. Opening his eyes, he pulled her closer, one hand resting on her abdomen. The baby moved under his touch, bringing a smile to his face.

"Good morning," Rose murmured, awkwardly turning to face him. Even in the darkness, she could see him smiling at her.

"Morning." She smiled, kissing him softly.

He kissed her back, his lips moving to her neck as he moved his hands over her. In the months since they had returned to California, it had become their custom to make love every morning before they began the day's work. Even as Rose's middle had swollen and grown larger with their coming child, they had continued their morning ritual.

So Jack was surprised when Rose pulled away from him, pushing his hands away. "Jack, no."

He looked at her in surprise, wondering at her sudden reticence. She had never told him no before. Then, as she sat up, rubbing her back, he realized what was happening.

"You're having the baby." He sat up, too, looking at her in the gradually lightening room.

"Yes." Rose relaxed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

"Maybe it would be better if you stayed in bed." There was a hint of worry in Jack's voice.

"I'm fine, Jack," Rose told him, though she was a little worried herself. Not so much about the birth itself, but about the potential for things to go wrong. She had lost one baby years ago in a violent manner; what if that loss affected her ability to give birth successfully? What if something happened to the baby?

She had wanted a child for years, and she would be devastated if she lost this one. For her own self, she had little worry—whatever happened, happened, and she was strong and healthy; but for her child she was concerned.

Jack was concerned, too—for both mother and child. As he crouched down to help Rose put her shoes on, he couldn't help but remember Amelia's slow, agonizing death, and the tiny, stillborn baby boy, who had never had a chance to draw his first breath. Rose was strong and healthy, but he still worried.

As Rose headed for the back door to start the morning chores, he grabbed her hand. "Wait, Rose. I'll take care of the animals this morning. You should rest."

"That's a lot of work," Rose protested. "Anyway, I'm fine. I'm not an invalid."

"I know, but...I still think you should stay here. What if something happens? How would I get you back to the house? Besides, it's not so much work. I've been doing most of the mucking out stalls and hauling feed anyway. It won't be too much more work to pump water, milk the cow, and collect the eggs."

Rose put her hands to her back as another contraction began. She was sure she could do the work, but it would be a relief not to have to this morning. When the pain ended, she nodded.

"If you're sure..."

"I'll take care of things. If you want to do something, you could make breakfast. That's easier than working with the animals."

"I'm not really hungry."

"I am." He gave her a look of mock indignation. "If I'm going to do all the work, the least you could do is feed me."

Rose laughed, her worries forgotten for the moment. "I'll cook up something. You'd better take care of the animals before they figure out how to break out of their pens and get to the food."

Jack grinned, giving her a mock salute as he headed out the door, his limp barely noticeable.

In spite of their moment of light-heartedness, Jack became increasingly concerned for Rose as the day passed. Her labor progressed quickly, the contractions growing ever stronger and closer together. At noon, Rose finally agreed to lay down and rest. She had been up and about since early morning, first getting the few household tasks completed, and then sitting on the porch and sewing, enjoying the pleasant day. She had stopped her work more and more frequently as her labor progressed, until at last she took Jack's advice and lay down. Though the contractions were hard, she didn't feel tired; instead, she was filled with a strange kind of energy.

After Rose had gone back to bed, Jack sent Gabe into town for the doctor, pacing anxiously back and forth as he waited. As usually happened in times of strain, his limp returned, reminding him again of Amelia's death. He paced from the front door to the bedroom, checking on Rose every few minutes.

Rose lay in the bed, propped up against a stack of pillows. She was almost sitting up, an odd position for giving birth, but it helped to ease the pain of her contractions. She sat patiently as Jack paced in and out, asking every few minutes how she was doing. His concern for her was obvious, and touching, but there really wasn't anything he could do to help her. Giving birth was something she had to do for herself.

Gabe finally returned with the doctor, showing him to the front door of the house. Jack let him in, showing him to the bedroom while he grabbed Tripper by the scruff of the neck and dragged him outside, not wanting the anxious animal to get in the way. Tripper immediately ran around to the bedroom window, whining and pressing his nose against the glass, trying to see through the crack between the drawn curtains.

Jack returned to the bedroom, only to be shooed away again by the doctor. He had planned to be present for the birth, but fathers were not usually allowed at the mother's side while she labored. The doctor considered Jack's presence inappropriate and unnecessary.

Rose, however, had other ideas. She had long since stopped caring what others thought was right or wrong, and she wanted Jack there. Gripping his hand, she glared at the doctor.

"He's staying. I want him here."

"Mrs. Dawson, I can't allow that..."

"Of course you can. We're the ones paying your bill."

"That isn't the point. Your husband should not be present for the birth."

"You've got a wife, haven't you?"

He looked at her, puzzled. "Yes. And two children."

"And you were present for those births, weren't you?"

"Of course. I'm a doctor."

"Well, if you could be present when your wife gave birth, why can't my husband be present when I give birth?"

"He's not a doctor."

"So what?" Rose began, but Jack interrupted her.

"I'm staying," he told the doctor, pulling the chair over from the desk and sinking into it. "I was there when my first wife gave birth, and I'll be damned if I'll miss this one."

"Mr. Dawson—"

"No!" Jack and Rose both glared at him, daring him to refuse.

At last, he sighed, giving up. "You can stay," he told Jack. "But I want no interference and no panic. If I see either one, you'll have to wait outside."

Jack nodded. "I'm just going to watch," he promised, "and be there for Rose."

It was late afternoon before Rose was ready to give birth. As the pains grew stronger and harder, she breathed heavily, sweat drenching her hair and nightgown. She held onto Jack's hand, squeezing it so tightly that he sometimes winced.

But he refused to let go of her hand, refused to leave her for even a moment. Six years before, he had saved her life, promising that he wouldn't let go of her hand. Now, there was nothing he could do but keep holding on.

Rose cried out, arching her back as another pain lanced through her. When it was over, the doctor examined her again, nodding his head.

"You're ready now. When the next contraction comes, I want you to push."

Rose nodded tiredly, then turned her head to look at Jack. He tried to smile, but the worry on his face was unmistakable. It was at this point that things had gone so horribly wrong for Amelia, leaving her pushing for hours to deliver a baby that would not come, and when it finally was born, it had been too late for either of them.

Rose tried to give him a reassuring look, but she wasn't so confident herself. _Please, God,_ she prayed, though she had never been very religious. _Please let this baby be all right._

Then there was no more time for thought; she bore down with all her strength as another contraction ripped through her. Clutching Jack's hand tightly, she cried out, pushing as hard as she could.

It hurt, but it wasn't over yet. The baby was slowly making its way into the world, but it had not yet appeared. It was still inside her, waiting for her to push it out.

Jack watched anxiously as Rose labored to give birth, his worry giving way to fear as Rose bore down several more times, without results.

_She's going to die,_ he thought, watching her strain again. _She'll die, and the baby with her. It was inevitable, right from the start. And there's nothing I can do but watch. How will I go on without her? It was hard enough when Amelia died, but Rose...Rose has been in my heart since the first time I saw her, far above me on the Titanic. What will I do without her? To have found her again, and to lose her this way..._

He was pulled from his thoughts by Rose's shriek. She clutched his hand with all her strength, her other hand pulling at the sheet, almost ripping it. In a gush of fluid, the top of the baby's head appeared.

A moment later, she pushed again. Jack's face paled, watching her struggle to deliver the baby. In a moment, it would be born, and then...he remembered the other baby, the tiny stillborn son, so perfect and fragile—and so still and unmoving.

Rose groaned, bearing down with all her strength. It seemed to take forever, and yet, after a moment, she felt the pressure ease as the baby slid from her body. Panting, she pushed herself up on her elbows, hoping against hope that everything would be all right.

For a moment, there was silence. The baby wiggled its tiny limbs, trying them out in the newfound freedom. Then, its cry split the air as it drew its first breath, clearing its lungs and announcing its presence to the world.

"It's a boy!" the doctor announced, cutting the cord and wrapping the newborn in a blanket, handing him to his mother.

Rose took her newborn eagerly, pulling back the blanket to look at him. His little face was red, his tiny limbs moving furiously as he wailed. His head was covered with pale blonde hair, much like his father's, and his little face was perfect, if slightly distorted as he cried indignantly. Her eyes lit with joy as she realized that she had brought a healthy baby into the world. Losing her first baby hadn't hurt this one at all.

Jack stared at the baby, almost afraid to believe his eyes. Rose was all right, and his son...his son was alive, kicking and wailing with life. Tentatively, he reached out and touched the little hands, proving to himself that his eyes and ears weren't deceiving him. The baby grasped his fingers, holding on with a strong grip.

Rose looked at Jack, the relief on her face mirroring his. In spite of everything, in spite of all their fears and worries, they had brought a healthy child into the world.

Suddenly overwhelmed, Jack sank back into his chair, his eyes never leaving Rose and his son. It was nothing short of a miracle that they had come to this day, this moment. Who would have even thought it possible?

And even as Rose turned to him, her free hand reaching out to take his, Jack broke down and cried with joy and relief.


	97. Absolution

Epilogue

March 20, 1918

Rose sat in the old rocking chair, gazing out the window as the sun rose on this, the first day of spring. Abraham Fabrizio Dawson lay in her arms asleep, contentedly full of warm milk. She gazed down at him, her eyes lighting at the sight of her precious newborn son.

Jack had named their son, naming him in honor of his brothers, he had told Rose. The doctor had looked confused, trying to figure out how Jack had come to have an Italian brother, but Rose had understood. Fabrizio had been like a brother to Jack, and it was only fitting that he should name his son after both of his brothers.

Rose looked out the window again, watching as Jack carried water to the horse trough. One of the horses trotted up to him, and he stopped for a moment, scratching the animal's head, before moving along. His limp was barely noticeable.

As the sun broke over the hills to the east, Rose sat back in the chair, rocking gently, her mind filled with the memories of the years and of the people who had brought her to this moment. Alice...Robert...Tom...Esther...Marietta...even Cal had been an important part of that past, for it was he who had set her on her way. Had she not left that long-ago afternoon, she would never have come to this moment.

And even as she remembered the events of the past, she knew that the years of running were over. She had found a home and a family, and she had no need to run further. What had happened in the past was over, done with, and she had learned to forgive herself.

Jack walked slowly into the bedroom, seeing Rose sitting at the window with the baby in her arms. The growing light of the spring morning fell on her face, giving her an almost angelic look.

As though sensing his presence, Rose turned, her face lighting in a smile as she held her hand out to him. He walked over to them, kneeling down beside them as he embraced her. Drawing her closer into his arms, he kissed her, then whispered, "I love you."

"And I love you," Rose whispered back, returning his kiss with all the love and passion in her heart.

A ray of sunshine shone through the window, surrounding them, and in that moment Rose was filled with a sense of peace and love that she had never known before. Smiling brightly, she pulled Jack close, bringing both him and little Abraham into her embrace.

She had finally found her absolution.

The End.


End file.
